


Look to the Stars

by Eyesforfiction



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Baptism, Church of England, Detectives, F/M, Frustration, Illnesses, Male-Female Friendship, Murder, Trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 29,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21520021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyesforfiction/pseuds/Eyesforfiction
Summary: A sequel to 'When Darkness Falls.'
Relationships: Andrew Foyle & Christopher Foyle, Christopher Foyle & Sam Stewart, Sam - Relationship, Sam Stewart/Original Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to 'When Darkness Falls.'

Andrew's hip bumped against the door of the small train carriage, his hold on the brass handle barely keeping him from falling over. Thankfully it was only the two of them in the confined space, the only other passenger to board with them mercifully taking the next booth. Andrew's jaw tensed as the tiny rust-red coloured houses rushed past the dirty windows.

"Why don't you come and sit down?" Foyle quietly suggested, sliding himself over fractionally so that there was enough room between himself and the window. He touched the padded seat, its worn leather squeaking under his fingers.

Andrew nodded a couple of times but strode instead to the seat opposite his father. He huffed as his bottom flopped onto the padded seat, a small cloud of dust suddenly visible in the stream of early morning sunshine. Like a nervous tic his right heel bounced, his knee jumping up and down as a result.

"This could be awkward, Dad …..I mean..." Andrew mumbled, his hand pressing down on his jittery leg.

"Why do you say that?" Foyle asked, turning himself so that his shoulders pressed into the corner of the back rest.

"What if Sam doesn't want me there?"

"Well, she invited you, so…..I'd find that hard to believe" Foyle replied, pointing out the obvious flaw in his son's argument. Andrew didn't seem convinced.

Their conversation stalled as the train headed into a tunnel, the darkness and a high pitched whistle of wind rendering any attempt at speech moot.

As often happens, the train gathered considerable speed while in the tunnel and the sudden re-emergence of sunlight seemed to make Andrew jump. He drew in a quick breath and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

"Alright?" Foyle asked, frowning.

"Mm hm...fine" Andrew replied and blinked his eyes a few times.

They continued on in silence as the train steadily rumbled along, the younger man staring out the window, the older man staring at the son who had aged before his time. Foyle found it hard not to notice the prominent cheek bones and the dark shadows under his son's eyes, an almost permanent expression of fearful anticipation. Foyle frowned and leaned his elbow against the narrow frame of the window as they slowly made their way north towards Lyminster. The train carriage rocked, jostling both men in their seats.

As they slowly left behind the built up villages and busy high streets of the south and entered the green rolling hills of the north, Andrew's breathing slowed, the rhythmic blur of passing trees seeming to lull him into a state of peace.

"What's her name again?" Andrew suddenly asked, his fingers absently pulling at the raised buttons on his RAF jacket. His eyes slowly found his father's face.

"Hmm?" Foyle hummed, his eyebrows raised.

"Sam's little girl."

"Oh, uh, Katherine..." Foyle replied, suddenly smiling. "Katherine Joy." He ran his fingers through his hair, the tips brushing over the top of his ear. "I think they call her Kate."

"Kate Grimshaw" Andrew whispered, his lips working hard to form the words.

Andrew ran his hands back and forth along the length of his thighs, something he had always done when he was nervous or anxious. Foyle pursed his lips.

"Won't be long now" Foyle declared, somewhat redundantly, as they rounded the second to last bend. He and Andrew had made this journey numerous times; trips into Town for work when single parenthood necessitated the bringing of an adolescent boy, or holiday journeys to stay with Rosalind's family over the school break. The route was tediously familiar and not a penny would be lost on a bet that both he and his son could recite, in order, the twelve stations between Hastings and Euston Street without a second thought.

Andrew nodded at his father's words then stood, one knee braced against the side of the seat for stability, and reached for the two small cases on the parcel shelf. His own case landed with a thud at his feet and he lifted his hand for the second. Foyle suddenly perched forward on his seat.

"Steady on" he grumbled, predicting a rough ride for his luggage. "That's fragile."

Andrew gave a breathy chuckle. "Since when is this old thing fragile?" the young man asked, gingerly handing the small case over to his father, his two finger grip of the handle making it swing back and forth.

"It's not the case...that's fragile" Foyle said, exasperated. "...it's what's in it."

"What's in it?" Andrew asked, his smile growing. "You didn't pack your last bottle of Glenlivit, did you, Dad?"

"Well, I couldn't do that, could I?" Foyle retorted, sliding the case between his legs, his ankles gripping into the sides. "You finished it off."

"You offered" Andrew threw back, not managing to hide his smile.

"Well…."

The train began to slow down, the clickety-clack rhythm of its movement changing pace. While still holding the case firmly between his legs, Foyle stood and slipped on his coat then fed a thick grey scarf around his neck. Andrew instantly tensed, a reminder perhaps, of his father's recent chest infection, a particularly nasty bug that had laid him up for over a week and necessitated two anxious calls to the doctor.

"The wind looks like it's picked up" Foyle simply said, nodding through the window towards the swaying branches of the trees that peppered Lyminster Station.

"Mmm" Andrew hummed, a copy of his father's reticence. He reached over and carefully picked up his case, juggling the weight in his hand. "We shouldn't wait too long in the wind, then."

"Well, that won't be happening" Foyle told his son as he tucked the tasselled ends of his scarf into the gap in his coat. "Sam's father's already waiting for us."

"Is he?" Andrew enquired, his nose barely a quarter of an inch from the cold glass. His warm breath made a halo of moisture just below the pull down shade as he said "I don't see anyone."

"He's talking to the porter" Foyle explained and then gave a rasp of a cough. He sucked in a replenishing breath through his nose and rubbed the heel of his hand up and down his breastbone.

"Alright, Dad?" Andrew asked, frowning.

"Perfectly" Foyle replied and nodded towards the door. "We shouldn't keep him waiting."

With his free hand, Andrew slapped his RAF cap onto his head. "Mind the stairs, Dad" he said with not a hint of humour. Foyle turned and gave his son a glare, one of his eyebrows lifting in question. Andrew rolled his eyes but took both cases in his hands, lifting his father's away as Foyle reached for it.

"Mr Foyle" Iain Stewart declared joyously as both Foyle men descended to the platform. Foyle took Stewart's hand and shook it vigorously. He smiled.

Andrew stopped a full pace behind his father and placed the cases onto the concrete at his feet. "It's much colder here than at home" he declared and gave his father a concerned look. Iain leaned forward, his extra height giving the advantage of a longer reach. He put out his hand and said "you must be Andrew."

"Yes, Sir" Andrew replied, receiving the Vicar's handshake. "How do you do."

"I'm very pleased to finally meet you…." Rev Stewart said, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he adjusted his small framed spectacles. "Such a shame we weren't able to have you at the wedding." Andrew opened his mouth to explain but before so much as a sound emerged, Stewart continued. "But we do understand that your role in the RAF is of vital importance." Stewart reached and picked up the larger of the two cases then added "and we are very happy that you are able to be with us now."

A couple of young women giggled behind their hands as they briskly walked past the trio. The shorter of the two blushed as she glanced her eyes over Andrew's uniform, her head bobbing up and down. The other woman nudged her arm and they both hurried away, the sound of their high heeled shoes clicking against the cold ground. Foyle rolled his eyes as Andrew smiled bashfully at the women, the colour rising in his cheeks.

"I've managed to get a car" Stewart told them, either not noticing or, more probably, choosing to ignore Andrew's reaction to the women. He put a hand on Foyle's shoulder and leaned in, dropping his head so that his mouth was level with Foyle's ear. "My daughter gave me strict instructions not to let you walk in the cold, Christopher."

Foyle stopped and turned to look at Andrew, a questioning stare directed at him.

"I wrote to Sam …..when you were ill, Dad" Andrew gave, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh, terrific" Foyle moaned, his voice low. "Now I'll have you both fussing over me" he added, pulling angrily at the scarf. Andrew's half strangled groan, though, lengthened Foyle's fuse and he deliberately tucked the finely knitted wool back in against his chest.

"The girls will be wondering where we've got to" Stewart called over his shoulder as he led the way to the old car. "Unfortunately," he said, fishing a key out of his breast pocket, "the trains aren't as….predictable as they once were."

"No" Foyle simply replied and helped to load the cases into the boot. "How are they?"

"Ahhh" Stewart said, opening the driver's door. All three entered, Foyle in the front and Andrew sliding himself slowly into the back seat. "My daughter has her afternoon all planned out with you and Andrew, Christopher…..and if she found that I'd given you any information ahead of schedule, I think I'd be banished."

Foyle gave one of his upside down smiles and both he and Andrew chuckled.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh dear" Iain Stewart lamented, his foot pumping up and down on the clutch while his left hand jerked awkwardly at the gear stick. The ancient car, its appearance unapologetically showing its age, spluttered and coughed as they slowly climbed a particularly steep hill.

"Problem?" Foyle asked, frowning. He turned his head and gave the Vicar a worried look.

"Well, I'm not….entirely sure" Iain Stewart admitted, his eyes darting between gauges that wore crazed glass. "It certainly doesn't seem to be functioning….. too well."

Andrew leaned forward, one hand gripping the back of his father's seat. He sniffed the air and wrinkled up his nose. "That smells bloody awful" he proclaimed, seeming to forget that they were in fact in the presence of a Vicar. Foyle spun around in his seat and gave his son a stern look.

"Andrew!" he warned and raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry" Andrew said and tipped his head to one side. "I can have a look if you like" he offered, as if in apology.

Iain Stewart gingerly pulled the car over to one side, leaving the road. The engine gave a last grunt of disapproval then stilled. He huffed impatiently to himself and reached for the short brass handle to his right.

"Stay in the car, Dad" Andrew commanded as he, too, exited.

Foyle muttered a sharp curse that, thankfully, his thick scarf disguised. He opened his door and planted his feet into the deep pile of leaves that autumn had left behind.

"Just lift the bonnet, will you?" Foyle asked and adjusted his coat lapels to better cover his chest.

The bonnet's old hinges, almost completely rusted into place, squeaked in protest. Andrew gave a huff, his breath forming a small white cloud in front of his face, and reached over the folded metal to position the strut. The thin cold metal, held tightly in the young pilot's hand, flexed slightly then clunked its way into place, allowing the three men to inspect the now steaming engine.

Stewart pulled out a crisp white handkerchief from his hip pocket, shook it out in the chilled air and wrapped it around his fingers. He reached in slowly but as the billowing steam engulfed his hand he seemed to change his mind.

"Oh dear!" he exclaimed again, retracting his hand. His foot tapped out his frustration in the leaf litter.

Foyle shrugged his mouth from one side to the other in thought. His right hand tucked the end of his scarf back into place as he caught his son's eye. "Fancy a walk?" he asked, flicking his head towards the top of the hill where an old wooden sign, not yet found and removed by the local warden, told them that St Stephen's church was a mere two miles to the west.

Andrew lifted his shoulders and let them drop down as he contemplated his father's request. A smile slowly grew as he asked "you want me to go and fetch Sam, don't you?"

"I do…..can't think of anybody else who's better suited to, uh, get us going again, can you?"

Andrew rubbed his ungloved hands together and blew a jet of warm air over his fingertips.

"Righty-o, then" Andrew responded, lifting back the cuff of his coat sleeve to reveal his watch. "Half an hour to get there, half an hour to get back….should be back by about twelve."

"My boy, if you'd kindly tell Samantha that we're at the Commons," Stewart said, his voice warbling in the cold air, "she'll know where we are." He used his handkerchief to wipe at his dripping nose.

"Shall do" Andrew said and began his journey, one hand pushing his cap more firmly on his head, the other fumbling for the pocket of his RAF coat.

Before the young man had taken more than half a dozen steps, though, Foyle began to cough. The rasping bark-like hack made him stoop and groan, his left hand reaching out for the car.

"Dad?" Andrew called, urgently, as he spun around on his heel and briskly returned to the car.

"Mmm, fine" Foyle pushed out, holding up the palm of his right hand in a vain attempt to persuade his son to forget him and get going to the vicarage.

"Dad?" Andrew asked again, this time his voice echoing his younger self, the deep timbre of his words masking the frightened boy underneath.

"We'll just wait in the car, I think" Stewart said, tapping his hand a couple of times on Andrew's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.

"Hmmm" Foyle mumbled as the coughing fit abated. "What a good idea."

Andrew paced around to the passenger side of the car, brushing past the two older men in his haste. He pulled open his father's door and held it back while Foyle entered.

"You'll stay….in the car….won't you, Dad?" Andrew asked, sliding his hand down his father's arm as his eyes did the pleading.

"Yes" Foyle replied, his tone full of sincerity. He knew that unless he could convince his son that everything was indeed fine and that he would, as promised, remain in the car and out of the wind, Andrew wouldn't go and that wouldn't benefit anyone. Someone needed to go and find Sam and bring her back here and it didn't quite seem fitting to send the Reverend, so Foyle looked his son squarely in the eye, gave a solid nod and said "I promise."

Andrew nodded back and closed the door with a soft thud. One last glance at his father and he was off, his pace brisk.

"It's, um..." Foyle said, watching his son's back get smaller through the fine mist, "….not contagious. I, uh, wouldn't have come if….I wouldn't have put the baby at risk." He placed the palm of his right hand over his chest and rubbed in small circles – the movement bringing back memories of doing the same for Rosalind, his finger tips covered in foul smelling liniment, his words soft and reassuring as she gasped for air.

Stewart smiled and placed a firm hand on Foyle's shoulder. "I wouldn't have doubted" he replied and nodded in affirmation.

The next ten minutes passed by in easy silence, both men seemingly comfortable enough with the other's presence to not be bothered by the lack of conversation. On two occasions, as the sun forced its way through the misty clouds, Stewart broke into a surprisingly melodious whistle, making known the hymn that was obviously turning somersaults in his subconscious. The tune wasn't a familiar one to Foyle but he did enjoy its brief appearance. Although he could hold a tune, Foyle had never been much of a whistler; a skill he'd never felt the need to perfect.

As a sudden gust of wind forced the small raindrops still clinging to the windscreen to slide across the glass, the sound of an approaching engine drew their attention. Stewart, his long legs almost uncomfortably contorted between the front of the seat and the steering shaft, twisted his upper body and peered through the side window. With a finger and thumb holding his glasses in place, he craned his neck to get a better look.

"That appears to be...Sir Alfred Hockington's motorcar" Stewart remarked, although his voice was so low Foyle wasn't sure if he was sharing the information or just reassuring himself of an accepted fact.

"Unusual for civilians to have access to petrol" Foyle said in a rather sombre and unfriendly tone. He leaned forward to get a better view. "What does this chap do?"

"Do?" Stewart asked, his eyes still glued to the now rapidly disappearing vehicle.

"Uh, occupation" Foyle clarified, unsure if his companion appreciated the official questioning or not. He was, after all, here on invitation – this man's daughter's invitation no less – to his God-daughter's Christening and not, in any way, on official business. Perhaps such a sternly voiced enquiry into the otherwise quiet and well-lived lives of Stewart's parishioners might not be accepted so easily.

"I doubt Sir Alfred has done anything for himself in a long time, Christopher" Stewart seamlessly replied and turned to face his companion. "His wife, Lady Christine, is a stalwart of the Parish. She volunteers in many committees…..when her health permits."

"She's, um, not a well lady?" Foyle asked dropping his voice, hopeful that the Vicar's tolerance for questioning would not run dry.

"No" Stewart answered and gave a small smile, perhaps a practised professional response to a difficult situation. "She is, unfortunately, ….dying, Christopher."

The bluntness of Stewart's response made Foyle draw in a sharp breath. His hand reached through his now opened coat for the knot in his dark green tie. Had he pressed too hard? Too far?

"That's why he has access to fuel, Christopher" Stewart added after a very short pause. As Vicars often do, this man spoke easily and calmly about pain, suffering and death as if they were speaking of a completely mundane matter that required no more emotional input than a discussion about how much rain had fallen the evening before. The concern in his voice, Foyle surmised, was added purely for the benefit of outsiders who otherwise may think him cold or insensitive.

"Sir Alfred has to take his wife to the hospital for...treatment" Stewart gave, pausing, Foyle thought, for a sensitive way to put the matter. "She suffers terribly and is often in great pain".

"I'm very sorry to hear that" Foyle replied, stroking the silk at his throat.

"I can't betray confidences, you understand..."

"Of course" Foyle reassured, adding a slow nod in recognition of the Vicar's adherence to his professional integrity.

Foyle pondered why this chap had been granted such an unusual privilege. Surely he was not the only man in the country whose wife was ill – he could, if pressed, name almost a dozen men who were in the same circumstance and none of them, to his knowledge, had even come close to receiving such a grant, although most had tried. Of course, he'd come up against nepotism before; The relaxed restrictions unfairly afforded to a Judge's young wife, a doctor sitting firmly in the pocket of the former Assistant Commissioner and a whole board of the social elite who, for reasons known only to them, were prepared to turn a blind eye in the hope of gaining social advantage or, more probably, asking for an unwanted stain on their own character to be expunged. The whole affair had, at the time, left a very foul taste in his mouth and its memory now stirred again in his gullet.

"The, uh, young lad who was driving..." Foyle suddenly asked, sliding a finger across his chin. "A son?"

"Well, I," Stewart stuttered, his brow furrowing. "I don't believe Sir Alfred and Lady Christine have any children."

"Don't they?" Foyle asked, narrowing his eyes.

"No" Stewart replied, his words clouded by intense thought. "Although, yes, I do believe there was a younger man driving….or at the very least it wasn't Sir Alfred." He shook his head.

"Perhaps a nephew or….."

"Yes," Stewart mumbled, almost cutting Foyle off entirely. "Benefit of the doubt."

A large brown and yellow leaf slapped the windscreen in front of them, the noise disrupting their discourse.

From outside the car, beyond the propped bonnet that obscured their view, voices could be heard.

"I told you this would come in handy" the female voice declared.

"So you're just going to let me get wet, then?" The much deeper voice replied, a chuckle underlying his words. "And I'm the one who's carrying the tools…..and the can of water!" There was a rattle and finally a great sloosh of water.

"That's what you get for being cheeky!" she replied. "Now slide the tool box under the car to keep it dry and help me with the radiator cap."

"Yes, Ma'am" he retorted and they both giggled.


	3. Chapter 3

The old car spluttered and groaned as Sam carefully guided it over the uneven driveway that led to the Vicarage. The old road was long and wound itself with care around several gnarled and wind-worn trees whose appearance made them look much older than the buildings beyond.

"Ooomph" Andrew mocked as the front left side of the car dropped unexpectedly into a deep rut. The axle groaned.

"Rotter! I should make you get out and…..." Sam began, narrowing her eyes in concentration as she gave the engine just the right amount of power to drive the front wheel out of the divot. "…...walk" she added once the car was level again.

"Might be safer" Andrew replied, his cheeky smile evident in his voice.

"Well, I'm very grateful that you came to our rescue, Sam" Foyle gave, making sure that his own voice drowned out his son's mocking tone.

"You're very welcome, Sir…..um, Christopher" Sam said, turning a slight shade of crimson as she emphasised the last word.

Andrew patted the back of Sam's seat and gave a loud laugh. "Yeah. Thanks, Sam."

The ancient car's engine grumbled and groaned as Sam expertly guided it to a narrow gap between two small sheds.

Foyle smiled as he caught Sam's eye. 'Thank you' he mouthed before slowly turning his shoulders towards the door. It was unlikely, he knew, but he did hope that he'd been able to express just how widely his gratitude extended – and not just for the last couple of hours.

Sam turned off the engine, the action causing the car to jerk forward.

"I'll rescue the bags, Dad" Andrew said, still chuckling as he grasped the door's handle.

"I'll give you a hand, Andrew" Stewart offered and almost leapt out of the back seat of the small car, his agility belying his age.

While Andrew and Rev Stewart headed for the rear of the car, Foyle reached for his door.

"Oh" Sam muttered suddenly. He turned back towards her and raised his eye brows in question.

Sam reached over and picked up the scarf that had been forgotten, tossed onto the arm rest beside Foyle's seat. In her hands, she looped the finely knitted wool over twice and held the resulting circle up for inspection. In a move that surprised even him, Foyle dipped his head and wordlessly allowed her to slip it onto his neck. He simply smiled and took a moment to smooth down the ends.

"If you take much longer," Andrew said through Sam's slightly open window, "I'll start losing my fingers." He held up the cases until they were level with the window and added, through chattering teeth, "then you'll have to carry your own case."

"You'll be fine. Stop your grumbling" Foyle muttered as he climbed out of the car.

"Where did Daddy go?" Sam asked as she walked quickly over to the Vicarage's heavy front door. She pushed it open with two hands and, with her foot, slid the small wedge in underneath to keep it open.

"Said he was heading over to the church" Andrew replied, following behind. "Something about setting up."

Foyle entered last and closed the door behind him. He smiled at the sight of Sam and Andrew helping each other with hats and coats while they easily conversed – as if the last year had been erased and their friendship had once again taken root.

"Oh, there you are, my darling" Isobelle Stewart whispered as she silently walked into the small entry way, her footsteps masked by her soft slippers. "I was beginning to worry."

"Nothing to worry about, Mummy, but that engine," Sam said, pointing over her shoulder, "really ought to be pensioned off."

"Well, don't wish for that, Samantha dear" Isobelle said with a frown. "How will your father get to do all of his visiting?"

Sam gave her mother a worried look and helped Foyle with his coat, hat and scarf.

Andrew quickly placed their bags down onto the bare floor and pushed them up against the wall with his leg. With a smile he accepted Mrs Stewart's hand gently in his, their acquaintance being met – albeit briefly– an hour before when he had knocked on her door with almost numb-from-the-cold hands. "Much warmer in here, Mrs Stewart."

"Oh call me Isobelle, please" she gushed, giving her head a theatrical nod. "And just leave them there" she declared, waving her hand around before pointing to the cases. Andrew nodded.

All four of them walked in through the austere entry, Mrs Stewart leading, and turned right into the cosy little sitting room whose large window was still letting in the last of the afternoon's light. Andrew and Mrs Stewart conversed easily, her small lightly freckled hand wrapping itself around his elbow as they both chuckled at a shared joke.

Foyle had, of course, visited a couple of times since Sam had been married, once before the birth of her daughter and once after; his illness preventing any further visits.

"How's Katie, Mummy?" Sam asked, facing her mother. Isobelle's face instantly softened.

"She's just marvellous, of course…..and sleeping peacefully in your father's study. So do hush!"

"Well, until she wakes" Sam announced, a smile on her face, "we should have some tea."

"What a good idea" Foyle replied and placed a soft hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'll help."

They both walked into the long but narrow kitchen, the lingering warmth of the oven making it a very pleasant space.

"And how have you been?" Foyle asked a moment later, his back to her as he reached up to retrieve the small cups and saucers from the otherwise bare shelf.

"Oh, …..you know" Sam answered, her tone alluding to a much deeper answer, it seemed, than she was prepared to give.

As Foyle turned back around, his hands full, he saw the small china lid of the sugar pot fall from Sam's fingers and spin a few times like a child's toy on the table below. Like rapidly falling snow, sugar fell from the pot still resting on her palm.

Sam mumbled something quite un-Sam-like under her breath and quickly placed a finger onto the lid, stilling its movement.

"Tired?" Foyle enquired and slowly placed the cups from his hands onto the table. With two fingers, he carefully brushed the sugar grains into a small pile, making a teaspoon sized mound.

Sam huffed and pursed her lips, obviously lost in thought.

"Yes," she finally admitted and pinched the top of the pile of sugar, carefully transferring as much of the spillage into her own cup as she could. "Katie is the most precious….." Sam began, frowning. "...amazing gift, Christopher but she doesn't let me get much sleep."

"I do understand" Foyle whispered and arranged the other cups and the small milk jug onto a tray. "Andrew wasn't much of a sleeper either" he admitted and tipped his head back in the direction of the sitting room. As he grasped the handles of the tray and lifted it, he added "sometimes, when I got home in the evenings….Rosalind was almost ready to collapse. I, um," he added, pausing in thought, "wasn't able to help her much, unfortunately, ….which I very much regret."

Sam reached over and placed her own cup and the now half full sugar pot onto the tray in Foyle's hands.

"But for the next few days at least, I'm here to help, Sam. Anything you need.." he said with surety, "….just ask."

"I will" Sam assured him. She touched his wrist with her fingertips and smiled. "Thank you."

Foyle nodded and returned her smile then stepped back to let her lead the way back into the sitting room.

As Foyle slid the tray onto the low table beside the fire, Sam silently drew in a fourth arm chair, making a tight circle in front of the hearth.

"I have absolutely no idea what Iain was doing with it, dear but here it is," Mrs Stewart said, the long fire iron held uncomfortably in her hand. "See what warmth you can draw out of the embers, dear boy."

"Right" Andrew replied and tossed a few small logs onto the still glowing coals.

As Mrs Stewart held the teapot, swirling its contents around with gentle movements, Sam set out the cups.

"I'll be mother" Isobelle whispered and gave her daughter a wry smile.

As the fourth cup received its fill, Andrew announced his acceptance of the now crackling fire and sat down between his father and Mrs Stewart.

The front door suddenly creaked open, the handle banging noisily against the rendered wall. Sam gave her mother a confused look then put her cup down, clinking it against the saucer.

An obviously agitated man, a crooked finger pulling roughly against his collar, stomped his way into the sitting room.

"Daniel Thomas Grimshaw!" Sam harshly whispered, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. "If you wake your daughter with your stomping feet, I'll….."

Foyle's eyebrows rose but he said nothing.

"Oh" Danny mumbled and, as best he could, tip-toed his way over to his wife's side. With a gentle hand sliding around her waist and another touching her cheek, he kissed her forehead. "Sorry, darling."

After a moment, his arm still around his wife's waist, Danny whispered. "I don't think she's awake."

"Then you're very lucky!" Sam huffed, poking him in the chest.

Sam took a moment to compose herself, exhaling as she relaxed back into the chair. "We have guests."

"So I see" Danny said softly, an apologetic smile on his face.

"How was the journey?" Danny asked, his voice still softened.

"Fine" Foyle replied, accepting the man's broad palm in a handshake. "A little late getting going but, um, no trouble."

"Good, good" Danny said and turned to face Andrew who was by now standing.

Andrew's eyes were wide and his mouth gaped slightly as he took in the sight of Sam's husband.

"You must be Andrew" Danny said, offering his hand.

"Um, yes" Andrew croaked, accepting the handshake.

"What made you so upset, Daniel?" Mrs Stewart asked from her chair as she poured out another cup of tea. She handed the cup, her own, to her son-in-law then sat back against the cushion. "Mrs Bassingthwaite isn't…."

"No, no" Danny replied, a sheepish grin covering his face. After thanking his mother-in-law he brought the small cup up to his lips, his enormous hand making the cup look ridiculously small. "Seems we have a thief in the Parish" he told the small group. In two gulps he'd almost emptied the cup.

"Oh no, what this time?" Mrs Stewart asked, slapping her own knee in an expression of frustration. Foyle watched as Danny threw down what remained of his tea.

"The ciborium," he answered, bending to replace the teacup, "and the chalice."

"They're almost one hundred years old" Sam declared, stacking the now empty cups onto the tray. "What a cheek!"

"You sure they were stolen?" Foyle asked, helping Sam with the tray.

"It's my best guess, Mr Foyle….um Christopher" Danny said, one eye scrunched.

Danny stroked Sam's back with his left hand then whispered "leave the tray, darling. I'll fix it." Looking back over at Foyle he completed his explanation. "The lock on the vestry door was damaged and the small cupboard that the Chalice normally sits in was open."

"Daddy wouldn't leave that cupboard open" Sam said, her head tipped up to face her husband.

"I agree" Danny said, his finger tracing a curl around her ear.

"Told the police?" Foyle asked, his finger stroking his chin.

Before another word could be uttered, a sudden gust of wind made the sitting room's windows rattle, the noise quite alarming. A rumble and crack of thunder soon followed. From the study, came a cry – it started softly then quickly escalated.

"I'll go, my loves" Mrs Stewart declared as she stood from her chair. "You finish telling Christopher about our most unwelcome visitor."

"I telephoned the police. Yes" Danny replied, turning his head as his eyes followed his mother-in-law. "Iain's talking with them now."

Sam gave her former employer a questioning look, one eyebrow raised but Foyle quickly shook his head.

"The good news is we have a spare chalice" Danny told them, bending to pick up the tray. "But no ciborium" he added above the rattle of cups.

"What about that rather ancient paten that's always at the back of the shelf?" Sam asked, stroking her fingers up and down her husband's forearm. "It's a bit….old" she added.

"It's more than old, Sam" Danny replied, a grumble in his voice. "It's a disgrace. And it will take me hours to get it polished up and presentable." He turned on his heel and made to walk back to the kitchen, the full tray rattling in his grasp.

"Then we'll just have to make do and mend" Sam told him in a rebuking tone.

"Mmmmm...mend" Danny said, his voice low as he took the tray away.

"Ahhh" Mrs Stewart gushed as she returned to the fire-lit room. The small baby in her arms wriggled in agitation and the blanket that was meant to keep her warm fell to the floor. "Here's your mother" she whispered then kissed the protruding cheek.

"Hello, darling," Sam said as she received her daughter. Andrew carefully picked up the blanket, gave it a shake, folded it and placed it over the little girl's body, the corner flopping around Sam's shoulder.

Foyle sat forward in his chair and reached a hand out to touch Katie's arm. "She's grown" he said although not to anyone in particular.

"She has" Sam answered, wrapping the blanket around her daughter's limbs. With assurance, Sam handed the now happy little girl over to Foyle.

"Come here" Foyle mumbled, his words low, his lips next to her ear. He sat back in his chair and cradled the baby in his arms.

"I might just go and talk to Danny" Sam said, a frown on her face as she pointed over her shoulder towards the kitchen. "If you're happy to….."

"I think we'll be just fine" Foyle replied, stroking the baby's soft downy hair with his thumb.

"You're a natural, Dad" Andrew said with a smile, tapping his index finger on his knee.

"Well you turned out all right" Foyle shot back, giving his God-daughter a conspiratorial wink. "Although it's been a long time since you were this small…..or this quiet."


	4. Chapter 4

Foyle held the small thin towel, his hands open ready to accept the newly washed cup from Isobelle Stewart.

"Thank you, Christopher" Isobelle said, running her hand through the now tepid water in the deep sink. "Your help is appreciated."

"Very welcome."

"Dad's quite the expert at drying" Andrew added, even though his attention was taken by the inquisitive infant in his arms. "I was never allowed to dry."

"No. At the rate you were going, we'd have had no plates left" Foyle said as he hung the damp towel on the rail beside the oven.

"I only dropped a few" Andrew explained, a smile escaping out of the corner of his mouth. A small finger reached over and hooked onto his lower lip, pulling it down. He chuckled and stroked Katie's cheek with his finger.

"You spent quite some time on your own, Christopher?" Isobelle softly asked as she reached up to place the tea tin back on the shelf. "It must have been difficult."

"We manged" he replied, smiling down on his son who was quite clearly besotted by the miniature version of Sam in his arms.

The rather wrinkled frown on Katie's face, aimed squarely at Andrew's chin, looked remarkably similar, if not identical, to the one that Sam had given Foyle just an hour before. The storm, coming up unexpectedly as it did, meant that Sam's plans for an afternoon of activity had had to be postponed. Foyle's insistence that she use the time to rest had caused her great disappointment but he was, eventually, able to convince her that there would be plenty of time over the next three days to complete whatever activities she had planned. He wasn't running away and they had both agreed that, while she slept, her mother would find plenty of jobs for him to do. Of course it helped that Andrew was expertly occupying Katie, holding her close against his chest and keeping her mesmerised.

"Iain, darling?" Isobelle called, reacting to the sudden creak of the front door.

"Mmmm" Iain mumbled in what Foyle supposed was a response to his wife's question. As he entered the small kitchen he dipped his head and reached for his wife's hand. "Lady Christine has had another … bad turn, my dear" he said, his other hand cupping her elbow. Whether it was a gesture of affection, a way of catching her if she began to falter, or a rather clever mix of the two, Foyle wasn't quite sure. What was obvious, though, was the pain that was etched in Isobelle Stewart's face.

"Oh no" she replied, the words catching in her throat. "Terrible" she added, continuing in a voice that was obviously choked with emotion. "How is Sir Alfred?"

"Well," Iain answered, flicking his eyes to the small window as he spoke. "Apparently he has a nephew ….. uhhh, hmmm, …." he stammered, obviously trying to recall the details of a recent conversation. His fingers stroked across Isobelle's thin elbow, the protrusions of bones and joints making Iain's fingers dance across her skin. "Gregory!" he suddenly blurted, pride instantly showing on his face after finally finding the lost information. "Lady Christine's nephew, my dear" he quickly gave, obviously noting the look of shock on his wife's face. "He's staying with them."

Foyle brought over one of the stools that was tucked under the bench top, and placed it behind his host. She smiled back at him and, still holding fast to Iain's hand, sat back onto the polished wooden finish. "I didn't even know that she had a nephew, darling" she said.

"Her sister's boy" Iain added, sliding his hand away from her elbow but not quite removing himself entirely from his position. "A little young to join up, Sir Alfred said but he's signed up for the Home Guard."

"Speaking of the Home Guard" a sleepy Sam said through a yawn, her feet still enclosed in her bedsocks, "where's Danny? He should be getting ready for his exercise." She slid out one of the chairs and sat herself down beside Andrew who still held Katie, although she was by now sound asleep.

"Pastoral visit" Iain simply said and looked at the silver watch around his wrist. "Mrs Filmont" he added, sending a quick wink to his wife. Isobelle smiled and nodded sagely, suggesting that this gesture was just the closing argument in a much longer conversation, the bulk of which being had behind closed doors.

"Mrs Filmont?" Sam enquired, lifting her waking daughter out of Andrew's arms. The little cherub, her thick shock of sandy red hair poking up strangely, grumbled as she lost the familiar warmth. "Is that the same Mrs Filmont with the five children? Lives out beyond the orchard?"

"Yes, my dear. The very same" Iain replied, turning to smile at his daughter and grand daughter.

"I was just speaking to her yesterday" Sam said, confusion playing at her features. "All five of her boys seemed fine, Daddy and Mrs Filmont herself appeared to be happy." Katie stirred in her arms and grumbled some more as Sam re-positioned her. "Surely there's more pressing ..."

"My dear" Iain said, taking just two strides to be at his daughter's side. He bent and kissed the top of Sam's head then gently stroked Katie's forehead with the side of his thumb. "We shepherds must never be so prideful as to assume that we can't learn a lesson, or two, from our sheep."

Perplexed, Andrew looked between Sam, Rev Stewart and his father. Sam placed a hand on her daughter's cheek and looked up to her father.

"Ooohhh" she mouthed, sudden realisation flooding her thoughts. "I see."

Andrew gave his father a pleading look, begging for an explanation, or at the very least an interpretation. Foyle gave a quick but definite shake of his head as Iain headed for his study.

"We'll eat in the big room, I think" Isobelle suddenly said, filling the silence. Turning to Andrew, who still looked more than a little confounded, she asked him to please see to the fire once more. He obeyed and stepped back into the larger sitting room, scratching the side of his head with his right hand.

Lost in thought, although not completely unaware of her surroundings, Sam said "what are we having for dinner, Mummy?"

"That's a very good question, my dear" Isobelle replied as she adjusted the rather ancient comb that was keeping her hair from falling onto her face. "Perhaps we can have those sausages that were given to your father yesterday."

"There's only four of them, Mummy" Sam replied, standing to join her mother at the bench beside the sink.

Holding up one of the thin pinkish-brown sausages between her thumb and forefinger, Isobelle looked down at Sam's feet and tutted. "Don't for one minute think you're going to be cooking in my kitchen with your socks on, Samantha. They'll get filthy."

Sam humphed and handed a grizzling Katie to her Godfather. "Back in a jiffy" she declared and turned to walk to the small bedroom that she and Danny shared at the far end of the Vicarage. What was once a visitor's room, that had at one time or another been occupied by everyone from Bishops to beggars, now served as bedroom and nursery combined – Danny's writing desk, out of necessity, had had to be squeezed into a corner of Iain's already cramped study.

"We could use the rest of the stock" Sam called over her shoulder, her voice getting softer as she followed the narrow corridor.

"And make a bit of a casserole….yes, good idea" Isobelle completed as she reached over to inspect the lidded saucepan that sat at the back of the stove.

As Sam returned, her feet now sensibly enclosed by her familiar brown lace-up shoes, she practically collided with her husband, his view of the room obscured by a large wooden box over flowing with fresh vegetables from Mrs Filmont's surprisingly productive garden.

"Oh!" Sam spluttered, only just managing to catch a dirt-covered potato before it hit the ground.

"Sorry, sweetheart" Danny declared, rocking back on his heels in surprise.

"You've had quite the productive afternoon" she said, placing the vegetable back onto the pile in her husband's arms. Before she could add to her words, though, Danny reached his head around the side of the box and planted a kiss on her lips.

"My darling, Samantha" he said to her, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm sorry."

"For almost dropping a potato?" she teased, inspecting the produce a little more closely.

"No" he replied with a lowered head. "For being self righteous … judgemental, and for not" he went on, shuffling the box so that he could hold it in one hand, "being utterly thankful for the true blessings that I have been given."

"Do you mean the carrots?" Sam asked, teasing a little more. She gave a stifled yelp, though, when her husband pulled her in close to his side and continued the kiss he had begun earlier.

"No, I don't mean the carrots" he said, when finally their lips parted. "I mean …. you, and our beautiful daughter."

Sam smiled and rose up on her toes to continue her kiss.

"How was Mrs Filmont?" came the question from the study, the door left ajar.

"Um" Danny mumbled as he handed the box over to Sam who took the bounty into the kitchen. "It was quite inspiring."

"Very pleased to hear it" Iain replied and both men disappeared silently into the study.

Isobelle whooped with excitement as she took in the haul in Sam's arms. "My goodness" she declared and patted the clear space on the bench beside her, an invitation for her daughter to unburden herself. "Mrs Filmont is certainly doing her bit for the war effort, isn't she?"

"She must have built herself a green house" Sam mumbled, almost to herself, as she split open a pea pod and threw a plump green pea into her mouth. Chewing, she added, "there's even some spinach."

"It's no wonder her boys are so robust" Isobelle said, holding up a tightly packed green sprout that almost filled her palm.

"Why don't you," Foyle said, gently handing the baby over to Sam, "and Katie go and sit down in front of the fire. We'll make dinner."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, her eyes asking the question.

"I am" he replied with a smile and a nod.

Thirty minutes later Iain, Isobelle, Foyle, Sam and Andrew sat down to a sausage and pea casserole with mashed potato. In an old wooden cradle lined with folded blankets, Katie slept, the crackling fire keeping all of them comfortably warm. Isobelle had of course kept back a generous helping of their dinner and left it in the pot at the back of the stove - A late supper for Danny when he finished his night exercise.

The conversation started slowly but soon flowed naturally, each person contributing to the din. The fire crackled away nicely, adding to the contentment.

Sam reached across Andrew, her hand stretching for the handle of the water jug to his left. "Thirsty?" she mouthed, flicking her eyes between the empty glass in front of him and the jug.

"Mmm hmm" he mumbled and slid the glass across to her. "Thanks".

Sam poured out two glasses, sliding each back to its original position. As the base of the jug touched the wooden table top, a loud noise filled the room - The unmistakable sound of a rifle being fired.

Sam jumped and Isobelle slapped a hand onto her chest, patting away in time with the elevated beat of her heart. Fortunately Katie merely stirred, stretched and went back to sleep.

Andrew gave his father a worried look, his face pale.

"I wasn't aware of any live fire exercises" Iain said, the first one to break the uneasy silence. He reached across the table and patted the back of his wife's hand.

"It was close" Andrew said, sliding his empty plate away in preparation.

"Mmm" Foyle mumbled, scanning the room.

Sam flicked her eyes between Andrew and Foyle, begging one or both of them to explain but neither did. She gripped the edge of the table, her lips parting.

"Where, exactly" Foyle asked, his face turned towards Iain, "is the exercise being held?"

The Reverend turned to face Foyle, his index finger pushing up on his glasses. "Just beyond the river" he replied and pointed back over his shoulder. "Actually, it's on church grounds" he added, watching Isobelle clear away the empty plates. "I had to get special dispensation from the Bishop to allow it."

"Reverend Stewart!" came a frantic call from outside the house– the tone of panic evident. "Vicar!" The call was louder this time and, by the sound of the footfalls in the gravel, whoever was doing the shouting was running – and getting closer.

Foyle put a hand on Sam's wrist and when she looked up he flicked his eyes to the cradle then to the kitchen.

"Vicar!" the voiced called again, this time the owner was awfully close. A pounding sounded on the door, a closed fist rapidly connecting with the broad timber. With a whoosh the latch gave and the heavy door flew open, banging loudly on the wall beside it.

"Go!" Foyle told Sam as she lifted her daughter out of the cradle. He gripped her upper arm and pulled her and his God daughter away from the entry way. Breathing rapidly, Andrew placed himself between the internal door and Isobelle.

A moment later a boy, of no more than sixteen, stood in the dining room. His green uniform jacket covered in blood, his face pale, he panted in fear while scanning the room. A blood soaked hand slipped its way down the barrel of his rifle and he fumbled and juggled the weapon until it rested against his shoulder.

"Son?" Iain softly asked and took a step towards the frightened boy. "Why don't you..."

"He's been shot!" the boy blurted, the unexpectedly loud outburst echoing around the room. He ran a bloody hand down his face, adding streaks of semi-dried blood to his cheeks.

"Who has been shot?" Foyle asked in a gentle tone.

The boy began to sob, great tears flowing freely down his cheeks, and he dropped the weapon to the floor. Andrew picked it up, applied the safety and placed it carefully down on the table that was only half cleared.

"The, ….the tall man …." the boy said through his sobs and held up a hand to indicate how tall the subject of his conversation was. His hand extended well above his head. "I don't know his name but the Captain," he continued, slowly composing himself, "told me to fetch the Vicar."

Sam stopped, turned and ran back to the sitting room, Katie's blanket flicking her on the back of the legs as she ran. "Danny!"


	5. Chapter 5

The telephone receiver made a hollow clunk as Foyle replaced it onto its cradle, the force somewhat excessive. He groaned under his breath.

Isobelle Stewart squeezed out a small cloth, the warm water running over her pale knuckles. She cupped the frightened young solder's chin in her left hand and wiped his face with slow deliberate strokes. She hummed quietly and soothed his fears.

"Not working, Christopher?" she asked, still cupping the boy's chin.

"Afraid not."

"The storm" Iain mumbled, his eyes on the firearm that still wore the rust-red coloured

finger prints. "It's never been a very reliable line, I'm afraid."

"Sam" Andrew pleaded, his voice just a little too loud. "Let ME go." He touched her upper arm, catching her attention. A fierce looking frown, though, made him release his grip and his hand returned to his pocket. "Some lunatic is still out there, Sam" he said, his voice showing his anxiety. "And he's obviously taking pot shots are our boys. If you think I'm going to let you put yourself at risk..."

"I'm going to go and find my husband" she said, a stoic tone in her words. She strode over towards the coat rack while her fingers fastened the buttons on her thickest and warmest cardigan.

Foyle chewed on the corner of his lip in concentration but said nothing. He watched as his former driver took her coat off the rack and slipped one arm through the sleeve. He'd seen that determined look on her face many times before.

"Sam, please" Andrew offered, the corners of his eyes creasing.

"Andrew" she said and held up her palm, silencing him. "As I said…."

"Private" Foyle suddenly said, his authoritarian voice making everyone pay attention.

"Yes, Sir" the soldier replied, his now clean face turned towards Foyle.

"Where might I find your commanding officer?" Foyle asked. While the boy composed himself in preparation of and answer, Foyle lifted his coat from the peg and gave it a shake.

"His command post," the boy said, turning, "is in the tent about ten yards this side of the river."

Foyle turned to Sam and gave her a look that said 'you up for this?'. She tucked her lower lip behind her teeth and nodded once.

"Dad?!" Andrew pleaded, his hand on his father's elbow.

"Get your coat" Foyle simply said while wrapping the woollen scarf around his chest.

"But.." Andrew said, his eyes darting between Sam and his father.

Foyle gave his son a sideways glance.

"Right" Andrew replied and slipped his own coat on.

The young private, now more composed, ran back to fetch his weapon – apparently, a charge of dereliction of duty was simply not on his agenda – and fell in line behind Sam, Foyle and Andrew.

As they all filed out through the wide door and into the cold night, Foyle put a hand on the young lad's shoulder. "You lead the way" he said.

"Yes, Sir."

The four of them walked slowly away from the vicarage, the young private wrapping his free arm around his torso like a child trying to keep himself warm. Andrew's toe clipped a small rock at the edge of the ancient path, despite the presence of a full moon, and he mumbled a curse under his breath. If either Sam or his father heard, neither said anything. The young soldier, eager to deliver his catch, raised a hand and pointed to an absurdly large grey canvas tent about sixty yards ahead of them.

About halfway between where they were and the tent, Foyle could see a small gathering of men, the hems of their coats all flapping against their legs in the stiff breeze. At their feet a long sheet of canvas, obviously stripped from a disused part of the tent, covered something quite long.

"Sam" Foyle said, his voice soft. "You might want to.." He touched her elbow, making her stop, and caught her eye. In the soft light of the full moon he was able to see her face and noted how the muscles under her jaw tensed at his words.

"Mr Foyle," she replied, reverting to her past, "you're going to ask me to not go any further, aren't you?"

"Well, I ..."

Sam tensed and straightened her coat, her hands pulling on the waist band. She swallowed hard.

"Why don't you and I wait here, Sam?" Andrew suggested, his hand on her shoulder. "Let Dad go and sort this one."

"No" she answered although her body shook like a leaf which, Foyle knew, had absolutely nothing to do with the cold.

The young private strode off, obviously caught up in his own thoughts. He left the trio behind and, holding his weapon close against his body, made his way back to his group.

Sam stood, her feet shoulder width apart, her chin parallel to the ground.

"Have you ever known me to shirk my responsibilities, Sir?" she asked, not meeting his eyes.

"Sam" Foyle gave, his head dipped in concession. "No, but this has nothing to do with ….. responsibilities."

"Sam," Andrew interjected, his voice unnecessarily loud. "What if that's Danny under there?" he asked, his hand vaguely pointing to the canvas covered lump some distance ahead of them.

"Andrew!" Foyle interrupted, eager to put a stopper in where his son's words were heading.

"We don't want you to see that! For God's sake, girl, see sense."

Foyle groaned and rocked his head back and forth.

From the side, beyond the cover of a tall hedge, Foyle heard movement – a clumsy kind of running, like that of a drunkard. The tops of the thin trees, already set in motion by the wind, whipped back and forth manically. An owl hooted in disbelief as it flew away from the commotion, clearly unimpressed by the disruption.

"Ugghh" came the groan from the darkness within the hedge, a clear display of frustration at its own ineptitude. The last wisps of leaves suddenly parted and out tumbled a mountain of a man, his arms still thrashing at the foliage.

"Danny!" Sam called, her voice cracking with relief. She ran past Foyle, almost knocking him down.

"Darling" he replied, his arms out wide to receive her. "What are you doing here?" He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground. "It's too dangerous" he said, although his words were clearly aimed at Foyle. He planted a quick kiss on her temple. "A man's been shot" Danny added, his face buried deep in his wife's hair.

"Yes" Foyle replied, stepping aside to make room as Sam was lowered back to the ground. "We know."

Sam used the backs of her hands and wiped rapidly at her eyes. "We thought.." she stammered, "it was you."

"Oh sweetheart!" Danny conceded. He wrapped a hand around her shoulders and fished his handkerchief out of his pocket. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I worried you."

"Then who," Sam asked, her thumb wiping at her nose, "was shot?"

"Comino" he replied, shaking out his handkerchief. "Jason Comino. He was only sixteen. One of the other lads saw him dead, all sprawled out across the path, and ran off into the copse." Danny pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. "Found him curled up like a hedgehog, scared out of his wits. Poor lad."

"That's what you were doing in the trees?" Andrew asked, looking beyond the big man to the hedge behind.

"Mmmm..." Danny replied with a nod. "Then I heard voices."

Not for the first time, Foyle conceded that the cost of this war, just like the last, would be much greater and further reaching than anyone realised. How much could they expect these young lads to take?

"Comino.." Foyle pondered out loud. "Italian heritage?" He flicked his head up and caught Danny's attention.

Danny shook his head in uncertainty. "Can't say for sure."

"You think someone shot a boy because his name sounds Italian?" Andrew asked, his voice telegraphing his disbelief.

"Well," Foyle replied, turning to look at his son. "It's possible, yes but, um, best keep that particular theory to yourself, for now."

"Yes," Sam added, regaining her composure, "we don't want to tip off the shooter, do we?"

Foyle looked sideways at Sam. She stood up tall and brushed a piece of thread from the sleeve of her coat. "It's possible he's still here and if he knows that we're on to him, it'll hinder our investigation."

"Um, Sam" Foyle began, but his answer to her unexpected words was cut short when footsteps could be heard on the path ahead.

"That your Commanding Officer?" Foyle asked, nodding his head towards the officious looking man striding confidently towards them.

"Yes" Danny replied, gently stroking Sam's back.

Foyle took a moment to wrap the woollen scarf a little tighter around his neck and pressed the lapels of his heavy coat in on each other to keep in the warmth. He coughed into a balled fist pressed hastily against his lips.

"Captain Southerby-Jones" Danny told them, although it was clear that Andrew's attention was taken by the sight of his father hunched over and pressing a hand into his breastbone.

"Right" Foyle replied, drawing in a deep breath. "I might have a word."


	6. Chapter 6

"What do you see, Sam?" Foyle asked quietly as he, Sam and Andrew stood next to the body, the thick canvas cover since discarded. He crouched down, one knee touching the cold ground beside the body.

"I can see the reason that he died" Sam replied then came around to be beside her former boss. She lowered herself, her stocking-covered knees staying just above the ground. The boy lay, face down and arms spread, in the centre of a small clearing, his right leg laying at an unnatural angle, posed. In the centre of his back, his jacket showed a half-inch sized bullet hole, the edges blackened and frayed. A dinner plate size circle of rusty-red blood, dried and stiff, circled the wound.

A small distance in front of them, huddled together in a group, stood what remained of the Home Guard unit. Captain Southerby-Jones, whose good grace was the only thing allowing them access to the body, pulled out his note book and began to ask questions of the lads. Foyle would have preferred him not to do that - any lawyer worth their salt would strip apart any testimony gathered under false or misleading pretences and a clearly authoritative Captain barking orders that demanded an unquestioning obedience would fall squarely in that category. What Foyle tried to remember, though, was that he and Sam were here not here as investigating police officers, they were here purely because the local detectives couldn't be reached and they were, as Sam had put it, fulfilling an essential role in the absence of a registered official. She did list a couple of War Office regulations (quoting straight off the posters lining her father's church hall) regarding civilian appointments but whether this was what Mr Churchill actually meant, Foyle doubted. What he could never doubt, however, was Sam's genuine kindness. Her compassion, the way she spoke of the lad laying prone at their feet with thoughtful consideration, made his heart soar.

Foyle reached around behind him, pivoting on the toes of his shoes, and picked up a small twig. Using its tip, he pulled the fabric away from the wound in the centre of the boy's back – the stiff fabric made a crunching sound.

"Poor kid" Andrew said as he hopped from one foot to the other to keep warm. "He probably didn't even see it coming."

"Mmmm" Foyle replied, non-committedly and looked up. There was a full moon and the sky was clear – stars dotted the blackness. "Not exactly ….. dark, is it?"

"No" Sam replied, tipping back her head to take in the bright light from the moon and stars.

Foyle spun around, his shoes making a gritty sound against the cold earth. "I can see quite clearly right up to the tree line." He casually pointed towards a distinct row of birch trees, the ghostly appearance of their silver trunks reflecting the moonlight.

"Shooter could have been hiding in the trees" Andrew offered, shrugging up one shoulder.

Foyle shook his head. "This wound came from a firearm at close range. No more than a foot away, I'd say." He pushed down on his knee and slowly stood.

Foyle turned and, with both hands in his pockets, took three large paces away from the scene. Pausing for a second, he turned back around. "Sam," he said, scanning the landscape, curiosity etched on his face. "What …. don't you see?"

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be a little more specific, Si …..Christopher" she replied, rising from her position and turning to face him.

"He's been shot" Foyle re-iterated, although his eyes skipped from one side of the clearing to the other. "A young man. Fit, healthy."

"Yes" Sam mumbled, clearly trying but failing to keep up.

"Where's all the blood?" he asked, turning to look at her.

"Oh" she gasped. "There should be a lot more, shouldn't there?" She reached for the lapels on her coat and pushed them in against her chest. "The ground should be covered."

"It should" he simply added.

"Dad!" Andrew called. He was about seven yards away, just where last summer's saplings had emerged. He stood beside a small tree, its spindly branches missing.

"Yeah!" Foyle replied, suddenly much more aware that there was still a shooter at large and his son had taken it upon himself to wander off into the woods alone.

"Something you should see here."

"On our way" Foyle replied. He put a hand on Sam's elbow and gestured with a nod towards Andrew. "Come on" he said.

When they reached Andrew, he had one foot resting on a log near the base of the tree. "Look," he said, and pointed to a dark smear on the trunk.

"Is that blood?" Sam asked. She bent over to get a closer look. "Hard to see colours in moonlight."

Foyle touched the substance with his index finger and rubbed it between his thumb and fingertips. "Could be" he pondered out loud. After smelling the now partly dried substance, he nodded.

"There's more" Sam suddenly blurted, obviously proud of her own observations. "That rock" she added, pointing. "And on the grass beyond it." She started to walk in that direction, moving further into the woods, but Foyle squeezed her elbow.

"Be, um, better to see in the daylight, don't you think?" he asked, nicking his head back towards the clearing. "And I'd like to have a word with the Home Guard, too, before we all freeze to death."

All three of them moved slowly towards the troops, Foyle leading with Andrew and Sam a little way behind. He could hear the two of them whispering to each other, Sam letting out a sigh.

A minute later, there was a rustle in the dry leaves behind him. He turned around to see Sam rushing to keep up. Stopping, he met her with a smile.

"So," she began, her speech a little stilted in the cold air. "Do you think he was moved? After he was killed, I mean" she whispered, standing beside him.

"Well, …. hard to say" he replied. He lifted the collar on her coat, wrapping the warmed fabric around the back of her neck.

"That would explain why there was no blood on the ground around him" she continued, gesturing with her hand to the area around the body.

"A bit early to jump to conclusions, don't you think?" He shrugged his mouth to one side and waited for her rebuttal.

"It is the best fit, though."

"Possibly" he admitted then added "we really ought to speak to the witnesses first." He made to start walking, lifting his foot over a large rock.

"But ..." she began, catching his elbow in her fingers, "one of them might be the shooter."

"Yes" he told her, drawing out the sound. "It's quite possible."

Andrew lumbered up beside them, his hands balled into fists and shoved deeply into the pockets of his dark blue coat.

"I think it's getting colder by the minute" he said through chattering teeth. His lifted collar rubbed against his ears and made the ends of his hair stand out at an odd angle. "Do you think we'll be out here for much longer, Dad?" he asked. "I could think of a thousand warmer places than this to be on a Friday night."

Sam smiled and lifted a hand to rub his back. "Poor Andrew" she cooed. "You're not used to … oooohhh!" Sam stumbled for a second, taking a quick backwards step. Her words disappeared as she forced the air in and out. Her hand clamped down on her side.

"Sam?!" Foyle called, quite alarmed at the scene. He reached out and gripped both of her upper arms, wrapping his fingers around to hold her up.

"What's going on, Sam?" Andrew gasped, his eyes wide, his face pale.

"I don't know what happened, then" Sam groaned. She leaned forward and gripped Foyle's elbows. "Are you alright now?" Foyle asked her as she let go of him. She took in a deep breath through her nose and blew it out through tight lips. Her warm breath made a small white cloud between them.

"Take her home, will you" he said to Andrew whose face still telegraphed his concern. "Get her warm."

"Yep" he said, adding a nod, and put a hand around her waist. "Come on."

"Not on your nelly!" Sam protested, briskly pushing Andrew's hand away. "You can't send me home" she pleaded, her brow furrowed. "I'm going to finish this investigation."

"Sam" Foyle said, exasperated. "You should go home, get warmed up. I'll join you soon. There's not much more to do." His hand came down on her shoulder. "I just want to ask the Captain a couple of questions and then we can all take advantage of the fire at the vicarage." Some well thought out logic could usually persuade her to see sense and he prayed that this would be one of those times. She clearly wasn't well and tramping around in the cold couldn't possibly be doing her any favours.

"Then that's a perfectly good reason why I should stay" Sam reasoned, standing up to her full height which, in these shoes, was almost equal with Foyle's. "I might be useful. You know, see something that you don't ….. "

Foyle sighed and dipped his head. "And what would I tell your husband, hmmmm? That I put this investigation before your safety?"

"You can tell him anything you like" she replied and strode off in the direction of the troops. "We'll go there together." Her final words were thrown back over her shoulder, she being a good four paces ahead of them.

Foyle mumbled a curse under his breath, instantly grateful for the coils of scarf around his neck. Dipping his knee in resignation, he followed Sam up the slight incline.

"Sam," Andrew suddenly blurted, his eyes fixed on the men, "I don't think he's there."

Fiddling with the wide pocket near his hip, Captain Southerby-Jones deposited his notebook and pencil.

"Croxton" he barked, and turned on his heel to face the young lad second from the left. He was tall for his age but finely built, his thin arms barely filling out his sleeves. Unusually, he wasn't wearing his jacket, just his khaki shirt and long coat – his woollen tie skewed to one side. "You'll answer the question …. and you'll do it now."

"No, no, no" Foyle said, a hand raised to quell the Captain's aggressive approach.

Croxton gave the lad beside him a sideways smile and tapped the side of his weapon with his finger.

"You, um, not cold?" Foyle asked him, lazily pointing to his open coat. "No jacket?"

"Oh" the boy replied, smoothing down the front of his coat with his open palm. "I was sick on it, took it off. You know, when I saw the body."

"Ah, I see" Foyle replied. "Quite a shock for you, I'm sure."

"Never seen a dead body like that, have we?" Elliott Darlington added. He returned Croxton's smile and tapped the toe of his shoe against the butt of Croxton's rifle. "Dogs, pigs, that sort of thing. Yeah, we've seen those but …. a person's different, init?"

"You found the body?" Foyle asked, raising his eyebrows in question. "The two of you?"

"We did" Tom Croxton replied with a nod.

"We had just started our exercise," the Captain confirmed, "when we heard the shot. Croxton and Darlington ran back to where the rest of us were…."

"You, um, weren't together?" Foyle questioned the officer.

"No," the Captain replied. He drew in a deep breath, readying himself for an explanation. "We practice many different scenarios, Mr Foyle, and one of them is where two of our boys are designated as 'enemy agents'. Their job is to stop the rest of us from getting to the Command Post." To add gravitas to his explanation, the Captain paced up and down in front of his troops, his hands grasped behind his back, his cap pulled down neatly over his thinning hair.

"I see" Foyle confirmed then turned his eyes to Croxton and Darlington. "The two of you were designated as the enemy?"

Croxton and Darlington nodded in unison.

The Captain stopped, eyed Croxton through squinted eyes, then pivoted to face Foyle. "They, and only they, were issued two live rounds each." He held up two fingers to illustrate his point then returned his hand to its original position at the small of his back. "It needs to be as realistic as possible, you understand."

"We've still got 'em, but" Croxton hastily interjected and both boys dug their hands into their ammunition pouches. They pulled out two shiny brass rounds each, holding them out for inspection with open palms, the edges clinking together like tiny musical instruments stuck on one note.

Darlington nodded towards the contents of his hand. "T'wasn't us."

Foyle smiled at the lads, giving their palms a cursory glance.

"Of course Thompson isn't here," the Captain went on to say, resuming his pacing.

"And where might he be?" Foyle asked, his head raised to meet the Captain's line of sight.

"He's uh, well he has a weak constitution."

Croxton sniggered but a swift swipe from Darlington – an elbow to the ribs – closed his trap.

The third young lad, a little older than the other two and much thicker in build, stepped forward. "Thompson took one look at the body and ran off" he calmly said. "Sick to the stomach, he was."

"I do understand" Foyle said, a softness in his voice. "And your name is?"

"Walters ….Stuart Walters." He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and breathed warm air onto his very pale fingers.

"I sent Corporal Grimshaw to take Thompson home" the Captain added and gave a nod of acknowledgement to Sam. She smiled back. "He only lives in the village", the Captain explained, waving his index finger in the general direction. "His father's one of the Vicar's Wardens. I thought it best."

"Of course" Foyle replied. He drew in a deep breath and cleared his throat, his fist pressed against his lips and chin.

Andrew shuffled in his spot but busied his hands with the belt on his coat.

"And you know Hellier" The Captain said, stopping in front of the youngest of the unit. The boy rubbed at his cheek with his thumb, the same cheek Isobelle Stewart has wiped clean earlier. He gave Foyle a nervous smile then looked down at his shoes. "It's his first exercise with us."

"Bloody useless" came the mumbled response from Darlington. The insult was cut short by one of Walters' elbows coming into contact with the back of Darlington's head.

"Yes" Foyle confirmed. "We met earlier." He waited until the boy lifted his head before returning his smile.

Foyle turned back to face the Captain, one hand covering his chest, the other gesturing towards the officer's hip pocket. "I wonder if I could trouble you" he began, taking a step closer. "You have a lot to do and I, um, don't want to keep you from it but if I could have the names and addresses of all the members of your unit, I'd be much obliged."

Croxton gasped audibly and gave Darlington a worried look.

"Yes, of course" the Captain replied and, with his back to his men, pulled out his note book. He tore at a couple of pages, whispering instructions to himself as he struggled to read his own writing in the moonlight.

"Thank you."


	7. Chapter 7

Foyle sat at the long dining table in the centre of the front room of the Vicarage, his back to the crackling fire. In front of him sat five sheets of paper, three filled with his neat printing, the other two beyond his left elbow. The small torn pages from the Captain's notebook lay face down on the table, a ceramic pepper pot acting as a paper weight.

"Not quite what you had in mind, is it?" Sam said from her chair beside the fire, her tone wistful.

"Hmmm?"

"When you agreed to visit" Sam clarified.

"Well," Foyle replied and turned in his seat to face her. "We've not much choice."

Sam hummed her agreement and lifted Katie until the small head rested on her shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her, his head tilted in question, an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, I'm fine" Sam replied and angled her neck so that her cheek rested in her daughter's auburn curls.

"You sure?"

"Yes" came the reply, although there was little conviction in it.

Iain stepped over and placed a small cup of tea onto the long table, the base of the saucer bumping against the note paper. Foyle smiled his thanks then turned his chair around, facing the small family seated around the wide hearth.

Andrew accepted the second cup, his eyes fixed on a rather pale looking Sam.

Isobelle's knitting needles clicked together with a rapid cadence as the thin recycled wool snaked its way across her knee. At her husband's wordless offer, she shook her head, sending the third cup of tea across the room to her daughter.

"Thank you, Daddy" Sam said, her words barely audible as she stifled a yawn.

"Here," Isobelle said, placing the half constructed matinee jacket in the space between her thigh and the arm of the chair. "I'll take Katie" she added and slowly stood, stretching her arms out towards her granddaughter. "You have your tea."

"Any ideas, Dad?" Andrew interjected, causing Foyle to flick his eyes towards his son.

"Ideas?" he replied, adjusting his grip on the handle of his tea cup.

"I bet you've worked it out already" Andrew added. He sent a glance to Sam, frowning as he watched her stare into the dancing flames, her fingers absently tapping the side of the saucer.

"Who shot the boy? You must have some idea."

"Nothing yet" Foyle answered, his face full of concern. He brought the cup to his lips and took a decent sip, the warm liquid hitting his stomach at an unexpected speed.

"I suspect there's quite a lot to consider" Isobelle remarked as she gently rocked Katie in her arms.

"Mmmm" Foyle hummed.

Foyle placed his own cup on the table behind him and reached over to grip the saucer of Sam's.

"Finished with this?" he asked her, his voice soft.

"Oh" she remarked and blinked a couple of times. "Yes. Thank you." Her words were followed by a genuine smile.

"The boiler" Iain suddenly blurted, as if the words had been trying to escape for some time and had finally found an open door. He rolled his wrist and inspected his timepiece. "We'll all want to freshen up before bed, I'm sure." He stood and took two quick steps towards the small table in the centre of the room. Pausing to give his daughter a gentle smile, he adjusted his glasses with an out-stretched index finger. He bent at the middle and grasped the tea tray, his long fingers curling around the woven wicker handles.

Isobelle stood and carried her grand daughter to the kitchen, quickening her pace to catch up to Iain whose longer legs gave him a distinct advantage.

Foyle took a deep breath and sat back against the timber rail of his chair.

"Croxton" he said and slowly crossed one leg over the other. Sam turned to look at him, her face showing her puzzlement.

"Trustworthy, you think?" he asked her as he laid his hands in his lap.

"Not by half" she answered, her eyes becoming wide. "There's certainly something he's hiding."

"Yes" he added, nodding.

Andrew sat forward in his chair, watching their banter like a spectator at a tennis match.

"Danny doesn't tell me much," she began, adjusting the now flat cushion behind her back.

"No, Sam" Andrew said, trying to add to the conversation. "He probably can't."

"I know" she told him and added a smile. Turning back to Foyle she said "but he doesn't have many good things to say about Croxton or Darlington." She rolled herself slightly, moving her weight from one side of her pelvis to the other. "He likes Walters, though. He says he's a good lad."

"What do you make of the missing jacket?" Foyle proposed, turning to look at her after a pause.

"That he'd tossed it away after he was sick on it?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Sam replied, desperately trying to plump up her cushion. "It was terribly cold out there. I don't think I'd have tossed away my jacket in a hurry, even if it had sick on it. I can't imagine that the smell of sick would have offended anyone. They're training to defend our country in a time of war, for goodness sake – the smell of sick would be the least of their concerns."

"Precisely" Foyle quietly said and rubbed his thumb along the neat seam of his trousers.

"And where did he put it?" Sam asked, almost to herself. "It's awfully strange."

"Like the door to the stables" Andrew said, bending over to re-tie his shoelace. "That was a bit odd, too."

"Stables?" Foyle asked, scratching the side of his head. "What stables?"

"The timber building beyond the birch trees" Andrew replied, looking from his father to Sam. "You didn't see? The door had been left open" he began, eager to dispel their blank looks. "The wind made it creak. That's why I noticed."

"You didn't mention it" Foyle said, rolling his eyes. Andrew gave him a brief look of smugness, suddenly a little too proud that he'd noticed something his father hadn't.

"Those old stables are a part of the church yard. Nobody uses them anymore. I don't think they'd even be safe, to be honest" Sam shared, searching her childhood memories.

"Well somebody had been in there. One of the doors was open."

"The wind?" Foyle asked, looking at Sam.

"A stiff breeze that only happened to open one of three doors, Dad?"

"Daddy might know something" Sam offered, sensing the tension between father and son. "Maybe one of the Wardens was using it for something." She yawned, taking a few seconds to regain her composure. "I can ask him, if you like,"

"That would be very helpful" Foyle replied, a hand on Sam's shoulder, "but not tonight." He stood and offered her his arm. She smiled bashfully, her pale skin turning a soft pink, but gratefully stood and wrapped her hand around his forearm.

"We've had a long day" Foyle declared and patted her fingers. "Thank you, as always, for your help. Much appreciated." He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight, Sam."

"Goodnight, Christopher."


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Foyle woke the next morning, the harsh wind had eased, thankfully, but through the open window beside his bed he saw dark clouds still lingering, ominous. He pushed the heavy curtain back as far as it would go, flooding the small space with light.

Andrew's bed, tucked into the opposite corner of the room they shared, was empty. It had been made, Foyle happily saw, although the finished product probably wouldn't have passed inspection. His uniform hung from the back of the door, the wooden clothes hanger wedged in behind an angled nail.

The jug on the shared dresser, its matching bowl upturned, held ample warm water for a wash and a shave. The damp towel and a well used toothbrush leaning against the rim of a glass told him that his son had beaten him to the task.

After washing and dressing he took a moment to neaten the contents of his suitcase, replacing his belongings one at a time. Despite his care, the parcel that he'd slipped between folded shirts, neatly wrapped in shiny brown paper with pale twine holding the corners in place, suddenly slipped out of its nest and clunked against the bottom of the case. He scrunched up one eye, stifling a curse and gingerly lifted the package by one of its corners. Thankfully, it remained intact. To keep it safe he slipped it into the top drawer of the dresser, the warped timber squeaking as his palm pushed on the handle. With one finger, he stroked the workmanship on the corner of the drawer, silently grateful for the sanctuary it provided.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Foyle heard Sam before he saw her; her head bowed, her arms buried deep in the engine of her father's borrowed car.

When finally she did rise, he couldn't help but smile. Beneath the edges of her faded red scarf, rolled tightly and wrapped around her head to keep her hair out of her eyes, were smears of engine grease – swirls of blue black.

"Morning, Sam" Foyle said, running a hand over the curls at the nape of his neck. He placed his hat onto his head and took a step towards the car.

"Good morning, Christopher" she replied. A curl broke free of its containment which made her grumble, audibly.

"Problem?" he enquired, although he pointed to the upturned bonnet. "Is it going to…?"

"Oh it'll be fine" Sam replied, answering the unspoken question. She wiped her hands slowly onto an old rag, carefully inspecting each finger as it emerged. "So long as I treat the clutch with dignity, all will be well." She smiled and patted the framework around the door.

Foyle frowned. He knew well enough that he was more than capable of driving himself and Andrew's help, albeit reluctant and somewhat superficial, would suffice. Her job, the most important one she would ever do, was here at home taking care of her daughter – he knew it too well - but the gleam in her eye, the sparkle that emerged at the mere mention of her driving him around the country-side on a murder investigation, gave him sufficient reason to reconsider.

He looked up, seeking her face. The tip of his tongue touched his top lip and his eyebrows begged the question. "You ummm..."

Smiling, she pulled at the scarf, releasing it from its task. "You know me, Sir" she declared with confidence. "I can be ship-shape in just a few minutes."

She turned on her heel and strode off towards the vicarage door, the spring in her step obvious.

"Sam!" he called, his tone making her stop and turn back. She cocked her head. "You might want to um," he suggested and wiped a finger along his own cheek bones, mirroring the smudges on her face.

"Oh" she replied and giggled. Her bottom lip slipped in behind her teeth as she turned around. "I'll just be a jiffy."

"Take your time" he called after her.

Andrew lumbered over to where Foyle stood. His easy fitting clothes, an outfit Foyle hadn't seen him wear in over a year, gave him an air of gentle confidence – a release of restrictions. In his hands was an old biscuit tin, the lid jammed on tightly.

Foyle nodded towards his son's hands and raised an eyebrow.

"Isobelle" he simply said, although his voice was low in volume. "Something to keep us going." Andrew looked around before whispering "I haven't actually looked in it yet, to be honest. Not sure I want to."

"Well, very kind of her." Foyle opened the back door of the car and gestured towards the bench seat. "I'm sure Sam will be very grateful for them."

Andrew chuckled, the smile lines on his face adding to his new relaxed outlook. Foyle smiled.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The large axe came down with a thud, cleaving the timber log in two. One half rolled off the block and came to rest in a pile of leaves, the other half found itself under the sturdy hand of Stuart Walters.

"Mr Foyle" he declared, barely looking up from his task. The axe once again did its job well, expertly splitting the timber.

"Good morning" Foyle replied.

Andrew and Sam stood a pace and a half behind their senior investigator, the old cottage to their left, the somewhat overgrown garden to their right.

Walters bent to pick up the split timber.

"I've been expecting you" he declared, standing up to his full height.

"You have?"

"Not every day you see a boy murdered in the church grounds."

"No."

Sam shuffled her feet on the path, her shoes making a scraping noise on the compacted earth beneath.

"Comino," Foyle began, as he watched the young man stack the wet timber under the wide eaves to dry out. "Knew him well?"

"Not particularly" Walters replied, stopping to brush a bug off his shirt sleeve. "He kept to himself mostly." He picked up the axe once more and slid a hand down the smooth handle. "He got along better with Thompson. Quite chummy."

More split logs hit the ground, the damp leaves beneath cushioning their fall.

"That why Thompson was so upset? They were close?"

"I imagine so" Walters said and wedged the blade of the axe into the side of the chopping block." It made an unsettling hollow sound.

Both Foyle and Walters stood in the unremarkable garden, the one tree casting a small shadow over the ground. The morning sun made the damp ground glisten although there was little warmth in it and the grey sky to the west taunted them.

Walters folded his arms across his chest and bent one knee. Foyle held his ground, his arms by his side, one hand in a pocket.

"You, um, didn't seem to have much time for the younger lads" Foyle enquired, his words making a cloud of white. "Croxton and, um …."

"Bloody Darlington!" he almost shouted. As soon as the words left his mouth, however, he turned pale and swallowed. "Sorry Mrs Grimshaw" he offered, his voice low and gravelly.

"Oh don't worry" Sam interjected, taking a step towards the pair. "And please call me - "

but before she could end her sentence, foyle's hand – palm out and fingers pointed as if he was in the process of halting a lorry – brought her words to an abrupt stop. His eyes left no room for misinterpretation.

Foyle turned back to Walters and continued. "Happen to see Croxton's missing Jacket?"

"The one he said he was sick on?"

"Mmmm."

Andrew sidled up to his father, catching his attention with wide eyes. He nodded back to where Sam stood, her arms tightly crossed her eyes rimmed in red.

Foyle closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and drew in a deep breath. The retained air in his lungs burned in protest but he refused to let it out. He placed a hand over his chest and took a moment to feel the lub-dub of his heart galloping away inside. He nodded before releasing the breath.

Andrew's brow furrowed. He turned and followed Sam back out of the broken garden gate, letting the over grown branch beside brush against his coat.

Walters made a grunt of acknowledgement, following the pair with his eyes then drew his attention back to the task at hand. "I never smelt any sick. My sister's little 'un had the flu a few weeks ago. Sick as a dog he was. You don't forget that smell in a hurry."

"You don't believe him?"

"I didn't say that" Walters blurted and raised a cautionary finger at Foyle.

Foyle's lips twitched uneasily. "What ARE you saying?"

Walters picked up the axe once more, as if the absence of a tool in his hands made him jittery. He looked at the tall pile of logs, temporarily frozen in thought. "There was blood" he suddenly admitted. "I know that for sure."

"Blood? Where? On the jacket?" Foyle tensed but didn't move.

"Both sleeves."

The log was placed upright on the block, its uneven face making it wobble.

"I saw Darlington stuff it into his pack."

"I see."

"And that nonsense," Walters said, huffing out the words as he brought the axe down, "about still having their rounds." The downward blow missed and a chip of damp wood flew to the side while the mostly intact log toppled. "There was a whole wooden crate of rounds in the Captain's Command Tent. We could have all helped ourselves and no one would have even noticed."

On the second attempt, the log was almost decimated. A good third was now reduced to a spintery dust and what remained opened itself for inspection in the middle of the block – one clean split.

"Did you?" Foyle asked, his body as still as a statue.

"Huuhhh?"

"Did you help yourself?"

"No" the large man replied, his voice small as he bent to pick up another log. "And that's all I have to say."


	9. Chapter 9

As Foyle walked back towards the old car, Walters' words turning over in his mind, his chest suddenly tightened – and it had nothing at all to do with illness. On an old wooden bench, bleached grey by the sun and wind, Sam sat. Her eyes were red, her cheeks raw, and her arms were crossed tightly across her still-slim body. Andrew was perched beside her, his hand on her shoulder, his head lowered to hear her words before the ever strengthening wind carried them away, forever unheeded. Beside her, a gnarled branch swayed, periodically flicking the top of the bench seat behind her. Neither she nor Andrew paid it any attention.

Foyle quickened his pace, the thump of his heart urging him on. When he was still a few paces off, he called softly.

"Sam?"

The single word seemed, for a moment, to swirl in front of him, the wind trapping it. His eyes focused on her face.

Andrew lifted his head and glared at his father while he gently stroked Sam's shoulder.

"What's wrong? Are you ill? What's happened?" Foyle asked in quick succession, the questions firing out of his mouth. He put a hand on the old tree, steadying himself while he waited for an answer, any answer.

"Oh you must be kidding!" Andrew blurted, his eyes not leaving Sam's face. He put his hand around Sam's back and pulled her in closer. "She's not ill, Dad. Sam's utterly browned off with you." A moment passed before he looked at his father and added, his voice softer. "We both are, actually."

Sam's eyes suddenly filled with tears. In the absence of a handkerchief, the heel of her right hand pushed against the flood but it made for a very poor substitute.

"Oh" Foyle mumbled, bewildered. He took a couple of small steps, closing the gap between himself and his former driver. "You are?"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a clean white handkerchief. He held it out by the corner, almost like an offering. Andrew snatched it up, shook it out and placed the end into Sam's hand.

"What um ...?" Foyle asked, still stunned. His voice was small. "You might need to ...uh"

"Dad, you treated Sam like a child." Andrew rolled his eyes and gave Sam's shoulder another rub with his fingers. "You cut her off mid-sentence. You dismissed her like, … like she didn't matter."

"Ahhhh." The air escaped from Foyle's lungs, leaving him deflated.

Foyle crouched down in front of her, one elbow resting on a bent knee. With his left hand he reached out to touch her wrist but hesitated. The action halted and, after a few seconds, he gripped the arm rest of the old bench seat instead.

"Sam," he began, and cleared his throat. "You must realise that I never intended for you to …. I wasn't dismissing you, and I certainly don't see you as a child. Far from it. In fact I was defending you."

"Defending?!" Andrew chirped. He slid himself forward, the seat of his trousers scraping audibly against the weather-roughened timber. "Odd way of -"

A thunderous look from Foyle made him stop.

After a short pause, Foyle continued.

"The man showed you disrespect Sam. I won't stand by and let that happen. It certainly wasn't okay."

"Is that not my decision?" she asked through her tears.

Foyle frowned. This time he threw all selfish hesitation away. He reached out and gripped both of her hands, gently resting his knuckles on her knees.

"Sam," he said, a gentleness to his words. "You are a married woman now. A mother. You can't ..."

Sam flew off the seat, pulling her hands away from his gentle grip. Her leg brushed against his shoulder, causing him to pivot on his toes to avoid falling.

A noise like a wounded animal erupted from her throat and she ran to the old tree, her back to them both. With one arm wrapped around the trunk, the jagged edges of the bark pulling on her sleeve, she crumpled. Like a broken piano accordion, her body collapsed in on itself.

Instantly Foyle sprang to life, sprinting to be beside her. He reached out and gripped her loose arm, pulling her up to stand. The forward momentum, the spinning motion, propelled her into his chest.

"Oompff."

Suddenly tears ran down her face and she buried her forehead into his shoulder.

"You don't think I KNOW how much my life has CHANGED?" she shouted, balling her hands into fists. "I spend my life changing nappies, washing clothes, mopping floors and, if I'm lucky, I get a few hours of sleep and then I have to do it ALL OVER AGAIN!" She banged her tight fists against his chest, beating out a rhythm to accentuate her words.

Slowly, wordlessly, Foyle placed his hands on her back and drew her in.

"My life," she continued, her words muffled against his coat lapel, "is no longer my own." She paused for a moment, drawing in a breath through her sobs. "And being here again, with you, has made it abundantly clear that I MISS my old life. I miss it terribly. I miss driving through the country-side, helping you solve murders, I miss the adventure, I miss being USEFUL."

Foyle nodded, his cheek brushing against her ear but he said nothing.

"I am tired" she confessed, albeit meekly. "So very tired and now ….. now…."

Her tirade stopped, an eerie silence filled the space and Andrew cautiously approached from the side. His eyes wide, he caught his father's attention.

Foyle asked "is there a flask of water in the car?"

Andrew shrugged his shoulders, lost for words. Foyle flicked his head in the direction of the car and Andrew, pursing his lips together in concern, nodded vigorously before heading back towards the road.

" ….and now" Sam said, lifting her head. "Now there's going to be no doubt at all that my old life is a thing of the past." She placed a hand on her middle and rubbed in gentle circles. "I'm expecting."

"Ahhh" Foyle replied, the inadequacy of his words obvious, even to him. He slid his hands down over her shoulders and waited, adamant that he would not be the one to silence her.

"Ten weeks."

"Sam," Foyle finally uttered, mindful of the volume of his words. "I didn't know …. that you were struggling, ….. I, um …." He hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her face. "Why didn't you tell me you needed help?"

Sam exhaled, the breath coming with a sigh.

"Not ONE of your letters," he explained, with at least a portion of his exasperation sneaking out between his words, "said anything."

"You were ill" she replied and broke away from his grip. She strolled back to the bench and leaned casually against the arm rest. The one dry corner of the handkerchief did an admirable job of drying her eyes.

"Telephone?" he asked, the single word carrying more than its share of frustration.

Her face, the raw emotion on it, appealed for his understanding.

"What does, uh, Danny say?" he finally asked, coming to sit beside her. The timber creaked.

"I haven't told him yet."

Foyle rocked his head from side to side. "Think you should?"

Before she could answer, though, Andrew came back, his hands full.

"I forgot about these" he finally said, smiling at Sam. He placed the flask of water down on the bench beside his father and opened the biscuit tin.

"Ooooh" Sam replied, her eyes wide. She plucked one biscuit out and brought it up to her mouth.

Twisting the lid off the flask, Foyle said "you can have mine too."

He poured some water into the up-turned lid, carefully holding it between thumb and forefinger.

"Here you are."

"Thank you" Sam replied, accepting the make-shift cup and he knew, at once, that she wasn't just talking about the water.


	10. Chapter 10

As all three of them walked back to the old car, the wind still pushing at their backs, voices from the path below the small cliff caught their attention. Sam stopped first and, with a hand holding her hair away from her face, said "that's Colin Thompson".

Foyle stopped beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Hmm?" he mumbled, his face turned towards her.

Andrew came to a stop beside his father, his eyes following Sam's line of sight. He took a careful step forward, his toe at the very edge of the cliff, and looked over.

Foyle's expression asked Sam for clarification so she continued, her voice low – although the strong wind meant that she could have shouted her response and no-one outside the trio would have heard.

"Colin Thompson" Sam repeated. She looked back at Foyle and continued. "Jack Thompson's father." When Foyle's confused look remained, she went on. "The young lad from the Home Guard. The one that Danny took home after …. well, you know." She rearranged the pins in her now chaotically arranged hair in a vain attempt to keep it out of her eyes.

Andrew looked at Sam then nodded. He slid his front foot forward, the toe of his shoe disturbing the loose rocks near the precipice.

"Careful" Sam said and reached out to grab Andrew's elbow. "It's not a long drop but you'd come out worse for wear."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience, Sam" Andrew replied, a cheeky grin filling his face.

Sam blushed and smirked but said nothing.

One of the disturbed rocks, losing its fight to stay put, suddenly tumbled down the compacted soil. It bounced and bumped its way down, causing small clouds of dust to swirl about in the wind as it went.

Colin Thompson, a headless but as-yet-unplucked chicken carcass in his hand, stopped in his tracks and looked up. The damp feathered bird knocked against his knee.

"Mr Thompson" Sam called, her hand curved around one side of her mouth to channel her words.

Colin Thompson's expression softened as he saw who was speaking to him. He raised a hand, the one still holding the carcass, in a wave.

"Mrs Grimshaw. Lovely to see you, as always" he remarked, shrugging his shoulders to accentuate each syllable, the effort involved with projecting his voice against wind and cliff clearly a struggle for his skeletal frame. He pointed to a small but neatly kept house about fifty yards ahead of him. "Kettle's on the stove. Bring your guests" he simply said and with a dip of his head set off again.

"Come on" Sam declared, clearly on a mission. She dropped the car's keys into her deep pocket and slipped a hand around Andrew's elbow.

"Sam" Foyle said, his apprehension evident. "Would you like to take a break?" He gave his son a knowing look and raised an eyebrow. "There's no need to …."

"No" she answered and shook her head. "We should speak to Mr Thompson."

Mrs Thompson's slim fingers held open the door and her smile welcomed them in. Both she and her husband had strong accents, their west midlands heritage unmistakable.

Sam and Foyle took the only spare chairs, the small front room not allowing any more than four. Mrs Thompson poured out two cups of tea – one for herself and one for her husband. Foyle and Andrew waved away a cup and Sam begged to be excused.

Andrew moved to the side of the room and chose for himself the small space beside the fire to stand. He shook his head, in response to Mrs Thompson's pleading, and declared that he'd been sitting all morning and it was a relief to finally be able to give his legs a stretch.

"You're here to check up on my Jack, then?" Colin Thompson asked, the carcass now hanging off an old hook suspended from the hearth, an occasional drop of blood landing on a folded piece of newspaper below.

"Well," Foyle began, not entirely sure how to continue. He sat back in his chair and crossed one knee over the other.

"How is he?" Sam chirped, her eyes catching a framed picture of Jack on the top of the hearth.

"I can tell you that Mary and I were very grateful to your husband," Colin replied, looking to his wife for confirmation, "for bringing the lad home after such… an awful thing."

"Mmmm" Mary Thompson hummed. She nodded in agreeance.

"Danny was happy to do it. Truly" Sam replied, smiling.

"How old is your son, Mr Thompson?" Foyle asked, his eyes focusing first on the photograph then on Mr Thompson's face.

Colin Thompson nodded a couple of times then answered. "Fifteen, in the spring." He gave his wife a sideways glance before continuing. "We knew he was too young but what could we do?" Thompson threw up his hands, as if in resignation, and sighed. "He's a bright boy. Knows what he wants."

"Where is he now?" Foyle asked.

"Gone out with his Uncle. Rabbits." Thompson pointed through the window, the slim bony finger gesturing towards the woods surrounding the house.

"Colin," Mary Thompson said, her elbow knocking into her husband's side. "Tell them what our Jack said."

"I don't …."

"Colin" Mary said, insistently.

"Alright, alright" he said, rubbing his side. With one final look at the photograph, he began. "The young lad..."

"...Jason Comino..." Mary Thompson added, filling in the gaps in her husband's speech.

"The one who was …. you know ..."

"Killed" Foyle simply said.

Both of the Thompsons nodded.

"Our Jack told us of a conversation that he and the Comino lad had." Colin Thompson adjusted his thin frame in the chair. He placed the cushion behind his back, making him sit further forward in the chair. "He said that the Comino boy said to him 'I've got something to show you. Wait until you've seen it,'". Colin Thompson looked at his wife as she let her fingers link together in her lap. "Jack said the lad was frightened, went an awful colour."

"When did this conversation take place?" Foyle asked.

"Just before the lad was … killed" Thompson replied, still sitting awkwardly in his seat.

"While they were all on exercise?" Sam asked, her eyes wide.

"Aye" Thompson replied, reverting to the accent of his youth.

"What was it?" Andrew asked, from his position behind Mary Thompson's chair. "The thing that he wanted to show him?"

"We don't know" Mary replied, craning her neck to keep Andrew in view. "Our Jack was quite ..."

" … he was troubled by the whole thing" Colin Thompson finished. "We didn't push".

"I understand" Foyle said, softly. He added a small smile when he caught Mary's attention.

"He did mumble something about a picture" Mary admitted, and gave her husband a somewhat apologetic look.

"As in a photograph?" Foyle asked, picking up on the uneasiness that suddenly fell between the couple.

"We don't know." Mary answered, shaking her head.

Foyle made a scene of looking at his watch then pointed to the rather grotesque looking chicken still hanging from it's hook. A smell was beginning to permeate.

"Well, we mustn't, um, keep you from your lunch" he said and, placing both hands on the armrests of his chair, slowly rose to stand. "Thank you for your time."

Sam followed his lead and, after shaking hands with the older couple and assuring them that she would indeed pass on their thanks to her husband, stepped around the sparse furniture until she was standing beside her old boss.

They exited quickly, Andrew gently closing the thin door behind them. Sam set off at a pace towards the car and the Foyle men dutifully followed.


	11. Chapter 11

Foyle was the last to enter the old car. He brought in his foot and reached over to grasp the rusted handle.

"Where to?" Sam asked, wriggling slightly in her seat.

"Home" Foyle simply replied before slamming the door.

"Surely not? Not now" she replied, her hands dropping to her lap. "Don't you want to know what it was that Comino had seen?" She adjusted her posture in the seat and re-gripped the wheel – ten and two. "We could go and see Comino's family…."

"Not a good idea, Sam" Foyle retorted, his face solemn. "Best that we leave that one for the local police."

Sam's contorted face showed her frustration.

"Home, Sam" he repeated, this time with a little more gravitas.

"Katie's probably awake" Andrew added, his voice breathy due to the fact that he was bent in the middle, reaching under Sam's seat for the flask's small black and silver lid. "I can give her some lunch, if you like" he suggested once he was upright.

"She'd like that" Sam said, her hand on Andrew's shoulder. They both smiled.

The entryway of the vicarage was still chilly despite it being well after midday. Foyle held out his hand to take Sam's coat. He placed it on one of the small hooks then added his own to the space beside it.

"Do your husband and father generally come home for lunch?" Foyle asked as he ran the tips of his fingers through his hair.

"They're normally home well before lunch is ready" Sam replied. "At least on Saturdays."

Isobelle Stewart met them in the front room. She had her granddaughter in her arms and was pacing, the ruffled pile of the old floor mat beside the dining table showing just how many times it had been trampled.

"Did you see your father outside, dear?" Isobelle asked Sam, barely slowing down.

"No" she replied, yawning. "He's not home yet?"

"Apparently not."

"Danny?" Sam asked, a hand covering the magnitude of her yawn.

"I haven't seen him either."

Andrew approached from the side, meeting Isobelle and Katie as they reached the end of the table. "Ahh" he cooed, opening his hands. "Who's upset, hmmm?"

Katie was handed over, her mitten covered hands pushing at the loosely wrapped blanket. "Come here to your Uncle Andrew" he said quietly, juggling both a wriggling baby and a drooping blanket. He tossed the corner of the blanket over his shoulder, adjusting the weight of it with his free elbow. "Are you cold?" he whispered. "Or," he continued, positioning the baby against his chest, "are you hungry?" The three corners of the blanket were expertly wrapped around the small body, the ends tucked in tightly.

Foyle, hearing his son's words, smiled.

"Lunch is ready" Isobelle stated softly, although she sat soon after saying it – the old chair creaking in protest at her rapid descent.

"I can fix it" Foyle said, a gentle hand on Isobelle's shoulder. "Stay there."

"Oh you are a gem, Christopher" Isobelle told him, her head lolling against the back of her chair, a clear indication of how exhausted she was.

Foyle rolled his eyes and gave a half smile before making his way into the kitchen.

"I'll help" Sam declared, slowly rising.

"You'll do nothing of the sort" he said, stopping suddenly and turning his head to speak over his shoulder. "Rest."

"Even Dad can put soup into bowls unsupervised" Andrew said from his chair at the dining table. "At least I hope he can." Katie wriggled in his arms, rolling herself closer to take advantage of his warmth.

"Oh, I see" Foyle said, feigning hurt.

"Christopher, dear, there are some cold cooked potatoes on a plate beside the stove" Isobelle called from her chair, her voice a little croaky.

"I see. Yes" Foyle called back, his finger touching the crazed edge of the plate.

"If you fork mash them with a dash of milk, they can be added to a little of the soup. Katie will just adore you if you make it for her lunch".

"Oh" chimed Andrew, his voice deliberately loud enough for his father to hear. He lifted Katie so that she could see his face. "And I though it was me that you adored." Andrew screwed up his nose and moved her closer so that their foreheads were touching. "You and I will reserve our judgement until after your Uncle Christopher has made your lunch, shall we? Then we'll see."

Sam giggled as Katie grabbed onto Andrew's nose.

Foyle soon brought out a bowl of thickened soup, a spoon and the small towel that normally sat on the hook next to the stove. He placed the bounty on the table in front of Andrew but slid it back a little, out of reach of small hands.

"There you are, sweetheart" Foyle whispered as he bent to kiss the top of Katie's head.

Andrew laid the towel across her chest, under her chin, and sat her on his knee, her back reclined in the crook of his arm. He stuck his finger in the soup and then had a taste, his lips sliding over his fingernail. "Not bad" he declared with a surprised look on his face.

Katie grunted her disapproval, reaching out with both hands and kicking her feet.

"Alright, little one" Andrew soothed and scooped a little of the soup onto the spoon. "See what you think of this."

Katie opened her mouth expectantly and touched Andrew's wrist with her fingers.

"Oh good girl" Andrew encouraged, and twisted to refill the spoon. "I wonder how hungry you are" he asked and shovelled two more spoonfuls into her mouth.

"Must have got her appetite from her mother" Foyle declared and gently stroked the baby's fine ginger hair with his thumb.

Smiling cheekily, he turned to look at Sam. Expecting an equally cheeky response, he was surprised to see that Sam was sound asleep in her chair. One arm drooped lazily over the side of the old chair and the other rested in her lap. Her head had found a home in the corner of the headrest and a gentle snore could be heard on every exhale.

"Poor Sam" Andrew said quietly. "I think we've worked her too hard."

"Hmmm" Foyle hummed and quietly walked over to be beside her. "Ssshhhh" he whispered as he fed one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees. "Off to bed now" he said, his voice still quiet. As her head rolled onto his shoulder, she asked "is Danny home yet?"

"Not yet. Get some rest." At the completion of his words he walked into her small bedroom. He laid her on the bed, drawing over the opposite side of the blanket – the less he did to disturb her the better.

"Promise you won't leave without me?" she mumbled, grasping at the blanket and pulling it up to her chin.

"Promise."


	12. Chapter 12

"I just don't know what's happened to them" Isobelle declared, her nose up against the window. "Very unusual for Iain to be still working this late on a Saturday."

Andrew picked up the saucepan from the bench beside the stove, the dish-washing cloth held tightly in his other hand. The cast iron bottom made a scraping noise against the timber.

"They're not just over in the church, are they?" he asked, although it was to Isobelle's back as her attention was still on the window.

Foyle passed over a couple of spoons that, for some reason, had evaded the first round of washing up. They splashed into the sink then fell to the bottom with a clink.

"No, I ..." Isobelle began, craning her neck to see the front of the church through the narrow gap in the slightly overgrown garden. " …I can see the door to the church and it's closed. If Iain is in the church, he ALWAYS leaves the door open."

"Perhaps he's just, um, lost track of time" Foyle offered. He smiled and gently touched Isobelle's elbow.

"Perhaps you're right, dear Christopher."

As Andrew walked into the small corner pantry, a box of salt in one hand and the flour canister in the other, Isobelle gave a great sigh of relief. "That's the door! They're home." She threw off her apron and, tossing the scrunched fabric onto the bench, hurried through to the dining room.

"Bella!" came the call. Iain's voice was hoarse but full of concern. "Bella, my love."

"Oh Iain."

Danny scooted his way around the embracing couple and came to stand with Foyle and Andrew in the kitchen – their combined presence almost filling the compact space.

"Problem?" Foyle asked, a hand resting on the back of a chair.

"Mmmm. Lady Christine Hockington" Danny replied, rocking back on his heels and turning his head to check on Iain and Isobelle. "She was found dead in her bed this morning. Her heart." He crooked a finger and slipped it in behind his collar. After a bit of manipulation, the constriction around his neck popped open, the gap in the fabric revealing a fine red welt across his windpipe.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that" Foyle quietly replied and gave a dip of his head.

"She and Isobelle were quite close … like sisters" Danny told them.

Danny made his way over to the stove. He lit it and slid the old kettle onto the heat.

"The strange thing was," he added, his back still to Foyle and Andrew, "Sir Alfred sent his gardener to tell Iain this morning. Caught us both in town. Iain wanted to get some visits out of the way before next week." Having satisfied himself that the water would be a little while yet, Danny turned back around to face Foyle. "Not only that but I found out that Sir Alfred's gardener is Joe Comino…..young Jason's father."

Andrew audibly gasped. "The boy that was shot?"

"Yep" Danny replied and slowly leaned back against the wooden bench. "I'd never met him before."

Foyle rubbed a finger across his forehead. "Seems an odd request to make of someone who …."

" ….who'd lost someone himself so recently." Danny finished the sentence for him. "Sir Alfred is not known for his consideration of others, Christopher."

"Sounds like a prat to me" Andrew offered, screwing up his nose in disgust.

"I won't disagree with you, Andrew" Danny mumbled, his voice noticeably lower, "but, for the sake of family harmony, I wouldn't voice your opinion in front of Isobelle or Iain."

"Mmm" Andrew replied, nodding.

Danny busied himself putting together a tray of tea making essentials, his large hands finding the delicacy of the china troublesome. When the kettle began to sing its readiness, he grabbed a thick cloth from a drawer and lifted the boiling water off the stove.

His voice barely a whisper, Danny said "Sir Alfred's asked for a pauper's funeral for his wife." Danny stretched his head out to check that Iain and Isobelle were still in the front room before continuing. "Do you find that odd?" Before anyone else could answer he continued. "I do." He added a couple of teaspoons to the tray, sliding the sugar pot to one side so that everything would fit. "Sir Alfred must be absolutely swimming in money. If you'd seen his house ..." Danny added a whistle and raised his eyebrows. "Nothing lacking there."

Foyle stepped back to let the larger man walk through, his arms wide holding the tray.

"Where does he live?" Foyle asked

"On the north road" Danny replied, scrunching up one eye in pain as his foot kicked the leg of a cupboard. "On the way to Arundel." He groaned and flexed the damaged foot up and down a few times. "I think Iain said Connors Road".

"Nineteen?" Foyle asked, fishing a piece of paper out of his pocket.

Danny stopped and looked at the older man, although by his stance, he was reluctant to ask both feet to carry his weight evenly.

Foyle opened the paper and held it flat in one hand. "The two lads in your Home Guard unit …. Croxton and Darlington …." he began, sliding his thumb under the printing.

"Oh yes" Danny replied, speaking through gritted teeth, "those two again."

"The Captain gave me the same address for both of them. Nineteen Connors Road Arundel."

"You're sure?" Danny asked, moving so that he could see the printing more closely. "Sorry, Christopher, doesn't make much sense to me." He made to continue through to the front room, the tea tray still held aloft. "We can find out for sure if you like" he offered. "Iain wants to go and see Sir Alfred this afternoon."

"Mind if I come along?" Foyle asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Not in the least."

"Good." Foyle refolded the slip of paper and placed it back into his pocket.

"Where's Sam?" Danny asked over his shoulder just as his foot touched the carpet in the front room.

"She's, uh, resting." Foyle paused for a moment, unsure of what he could or could not share. The last thing he wanted to do was to break Sam's trust. "We, um, had a busy morning."

"Right" Danny said, although they could tell that he was anything but sure of the situation.

"You, um, spoken to Sam lately?" he asked, cocking his head in question.

"Of couse" he replied but looked suspiciously between Andrew and Foyle, one eyebrow raised. "But I might just go and check on her" he added angling his head to point to their bedroom before scuttling out.


	13. Chapter 13

The front door of the vicarage creaked open. Iain held it back with his foot as Foyle walked through. After donning his hat, Foyle turned to face the doorway again, his back to the wind – Sam can't have been that far behind.

Judging by Danny's glowing cheeks and the renewed bounce in his step, Sam must have told her husband the news. Foyle was of course happy for them – the impending arrival of a new baby ought to be celebrated, especially during these austere and somewhat depressing times – but he did worry about his friend and one-time driver. Motherhood, he knew, was a demanding job with little to no respite and the pressures on parents and marriages was immense but he also knew that Sam was one of the strongest and most determined women that he had ever met. If anyone could cope, it was she and he was determined to help her – the whole little family – as much as he could.

"Here," Danny said, his voice soft behind an almost constant smile. "Your coat, sweetheart."

He slipped each sleeve up and over her shoulders and adjusted the collar.

"Just be grateful that you're not in the car, too" Andrew theatrically whispered to the baby in his arms. "It would be mighty bumpy" he added, jiggling the little girl up and down, her smile growing wide at the attention. He followed Sam out through the door although he stayed in the small protected space at the top step. The wind was getting sharp and the crispness of winter was behind every blow.

"Don't be a rotter" Sam retorted and swatted Andrew's arm playfully.

"And if I were you" Danny said, his eyes wide, "I wouldn't be giggling her up and down too much straight after a feed."

Both Sam and Danny laughed at Andrew's wide eyes.

"It would serve him right," Sam said, linking her arm with Danny's, "to be sicked up on."

Sam adjusted the pin on her hat and turned back to Andrew with a smile.

"You wouldn't do that to your Uncle Andrew, would you?" he asked, his words getting lost in Katie's auburn hair.

Isobelle reached behind Andrew and gripped the handle on the door.

"Let's keep what little warmth we have in this house on the inside" she said. Katie gave a shrill squeal and all three of them disappeared behind the large door.

The afternoon sun, it's strength quickly fading, touched the top of the mountains to their left as the old car took Sam, Foyle, Danny and Iain north towards Arundell.

Suddenly the car jerked forward as the engine spluttered. "Sorry" Sam muttered, hastily changing gears. "That gear's a bit tricky."

Danny moaned as his knees pushed uncomfortably into the leather behind Sam's seat.

"Sorry, darling" she said, her brow furrowed.

"Quite alright, love" he replied, rubbing his knee as he turned to give his legs as much room as possible. "It's fine."

"The two lads from the, um ..." Foyle began, breaking the awkward silence. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the neatly folded note written in the Captain's script. " ….Home Guard."

"Croxton and Darlington" Danny moaned, although this time it had nothing to do with his joints.

"Mmmm" Foyle hummed and took in a deep breath before saying "any idea why Captain Southerby-Jones would give me Sir Alfred's address for them?"

Danny and Iain turned their heads towards Foyle.

"No, I ..." Iain replied over the back of his seat although, by his blank expression, he was either processing some deeply recalled piece of information or he was completely flummoxed.

"Can't say I know too much about them" Danny interjected, his body turned so much that he was almost reclining. "we don't talk much."

"Many families around these parts are providing accommodation for evacuees" Iain said, finding his voice. "Sir Alfred certainly has the room".

"That he does" Danny added, his eyes wide.

Sam gripped the wheel tightly as they manoeuvred around some stray cattle on the road. Their speed dropped and the two right side wheels went off the road and into a dip.

"What about that fire?" Sam asked, pushing down on the accelerator as they left the beasts behind. "It must have affected the available space."

"Fire?" Foyle asked, turning to study the back of Sam's head. It wasn't the view of her that he was used to while driving and for a moment he felt a little off kilter.

"A terrible business" Iain answered, a finger pressing on the bridge of his spectacles. "Fortunately, it was just the summer house that was affected. Not the main house." Ian placed a hand on the back of his seat. "Quite the blessing that the fire didn't pass to the house. The two buildings are quite close."

Foyle nodded and touched the knot on his tie.

"Sir Alfred was able to, uh, put out the fire? All on his own?" Foyle asked.

"Oh no" Iain replied, shaking his head slowly. "The fire brigade were called."

"To a remote house ..." he asked and flipped his wrist to check the time, "more than forty minutes from the village?"

Danny drew his lips in, trapping them behind his teeth. It appeared that he was stifling a comment, unsure of how his words would be received.

Iain and Danny exchanged silent remarks – facial expressions taking the place of words.

Danny nodded slowly then, after drawing in a deep breath, said "Sir Alfred knows many people in the village, Christopher. It's rare for his needs to be … ignored." The last word was chosen carefully and Iain tapped the edge of his seat.

"His needs ahead of …..the needs of others?" Foyle pondered out loud. "Right."

Sam coughed in an exaggerated way, drawing her hand to her mouth.

"Okay, love?" Danny asked, turning toward her.

"Yes" she replied, angling her head slightly. "We're almost there. Just beyond this cross road." She nodded towards an immaculately kept hedge, the edge of which lined a short driveway.

The monstrous house, it's white washed facade reflecting the low sun, appeared as Sam turned the first bend of the driveway. The gardener, Comino, looked up from his work, one hand on the wooden wheel barrow, as they drove past. Iain gave the middle-aged man a courteous wave, acknowledging their previous meeting, but Comino merely nodded and went back to his work.

"Poor man" Iain lamented. "How he must be suffering."

"Can we do anything for him?" Sam asked quietly as the car came to a halt.

"He's Roman Catholic, my dear" Ian said and turned to his daughter. "I don't think that there's much that I can offer at this time that would be welcomed."

Sam frowned and pursed her lips. "Hmmm" she grumbled.

Foyle touched the back of Iain's seat. "I um, might just have a look over at the summer house" he said, pointing with his finger to the charred remains of a miniature replica of the house. A stone staircase in front of the car pointed the way.

"Oh" Iain replied, turning his body so that he, too, could see the remains. "Yes."

Danny leapt out of his seat and gave each of his legs a quick stretch as he stood. As Sam's door opened, he took a step to the side and helped her out. "Alright, love?" he quietly asked. Sam nodded, smiled and brushed her fingertips across his cheek.

At each step, the gravel under Foyle's feet crunched. His movements were hardly silent, much to his lament. He'd have preferred to have entered the scene unannounced, to have had a moment to survey what remained without being noticed – perhaps not this time.

An overwhelming smell of fuel, the fumes unmistakable, suddenly hit his senses. Foyle stopped in his tracks, a good seven yards away from the small summer house, and took in the scene. Blackened marks, the evidence of flames, coloured the outside and the two windows on the far side were cracked.

Foyle stepped closer, this time moving himself off the gravel and onto the neatly cropped grass, masking his movements. The wind unexpectedly blew, whipping up the acrid smell. Foyle's windpipe started to burn and he coughed heavily into his fist. With his left hand he reached into his pocket and drew out his handkerchief. Unable to draw in enough breath, his legs started to shake and he dropped onto one knee. His right hand on the grass on front of him, he drew the handkerchief up to his mouth, filtering what little breath he could draw in.

"What are you doing here, old man?" a threatening voice called from behind.


	14. Chapter 14

From behind his pale blue linen handkerchief, Foyle could see two pairs of boots marching their way across the damp grass. He pushed up with one hand, lifting his head. The coughing fit, restricting his breathing, had caused his eyes to water, limiting his vision.

“You’re not welcome here” the first young man said, walking towards Foyle. The rolled-up cuffs on his trousers brushed against the grass, catching the seeds. A knee pushed into Foyle’s flank causing him to over balance. 

Foyle’s shoulder hit the grass. “Ooohmph!” 

“Elliott!” the second voice called loudly in an anxious tone. “He’s some policeman or something, isn’t he?”  
“Doesn’t look like a policeman” the first man retorted, far too sure of himself.  
“It’s not worth it” the second voice squeaked. “If you hurt a policeman ….. what would your Uncle say?” Thomas Croxton pointed quickly towards the house, his movements jittery.  
“Shut up, Tom!” the aggressor shouted. He took a step towards Foyle and bent down. With his mouth level with Foyle’s ear he whispered, “nobody likes a snitch.”

With a hand on Foyle’s shoulder, fingers digging into his flesh, he lifted his boot, pivoting on his other toe for full striking power. 

Foyle drew in the biggest breath that he could manage, pushing against the burn in his chest, then braced for the impact.

“Git out witcha!” a work-worn voice called. Metal tools clanked together as they hit the ground. He called out “You good for nuthin’ bas...”  
“Elliott, he’s not worth it!” yelped a frightened Thomas Croxton.  
Both lads took off, their wild running style making the gravel shoot off in all directions. Elliott Darlington whooped with satisfaction, playfully giving Croxton a shove.

“Easy now,” the middle-aged man said as he gripped Foyle’s upper arm. “Let’s get you up.” Slowly the pair made their way to a low rock wall, a remnant of a time long past, about ten yards from the summer house. The gardener carefully lowered Foyle down to sit on a stable part of the wall, making sure to keep his dirt-encrusted clothes away from Foyle’s neatly pressed suit.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, a firm hand on Foyle’s shoulder, his eyes focused on Foyle’s face.  
Foyle shook his head. “No.” He slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket and sat as upright as he could manage. One hand gripped the wall beside him. “Thank you.” Foyle gave a quick smile and an officious nod.  
“Seamus Comino” the man declared and, after wiping his palm slowly on the side of his trousers, offered his hand to Foyle.  
“Christopher Foyle” Foyle replied, firmly shaking the man’s hand. 

Comino sat slowly down on the wall to Foyle’s right. The heels of his boots scraped the uneven rocks.  
“I’m sorry for your loss. Your son” Foyle said, his voice still croaky.  
His own constant fear, that one day he would be on the receiving end of similar news, reared up. He sent a quick thanks to God that his own son was at this time enjoying the company a beautiful baby girl in front of a warm fire – safe and well.

Comino stared out over the immaculate lawn, his expression pensive. He ran his long thin fingers through his thinning hair but remained silent.

Foyle turned his head and examined a lone yellow flower poking its way through the grass – a chance for one man to catch his breath and another to wrestle bravely with his emotions.

“What were you doin’?” Comino suddenly asked, his attention still far away. His voice was weak.  
“Hmm?” Foyle replied, lifting his eyes from the ground.  
“The Summer House” Comino clarified and pointed to the charred remains.  
“Just, uh, ….I was curious.”  
“The fire was days ago” he replied, his brow furrowed.  
“Yes, I ...”

“It was a funny business” the gardener began, seemingly grateful for a compassionate ear. “It was on Tuesday.”  
“Tuesday?” Foyle asked, turning to look at his companion. “That’s when it was?”  
“Aye. Sir Alfred,” he said, nodding his head towards the upper storey window of the house, “asked me to run and fetch some grub powder for the roses just after one that afternoon.” Comino turned and looked at Foyle, his face contorted in confusion. “Only we already have plenty in storage. I tried to tell him but ...”  
“So you left?” Foyle asked. “At one?”  
“I had no choice” Comino said, shrugging his shoulders in resignation. “Sir Alfred insisted. And he won’t let me buy from just anywhere. He’ll only let me purchase supplies from Brittleton’s in the Village. He has an account.”  
“And the Summer House was perfectly fine when you left?”  
“It was.” Comino scratched the side of his head, the neatly repaired cuff of his shirt brushing against his temple. 

“When did you get back?” Foyle asked.  
“Hmm, now, it must have been about half two but ...” Comino paused, deep in thought. “I went straight to the shed. It’s on the other side of the house.” A long finger pointed to a spot beyond the house, towards the low sun. He turned and faced Foyle. “I didn’t see the summer house until well after three.”  
“Anything, uh, amiss??”  
“You mean suspicious?” Comino asked, bending down to scratch his shin. As he lifted back up again, gripping the wall with one hand, he took a moment to scan their surroundings. 

The garden seemed deserted to Foyle and it was a fair assumption to make that Comino was alone in his work – nobody would send the head gardener for such a menial task as fetching pesticide if a errand-boy was available – and by the state of his clothes, he was no stranger to hard, dirty work himself.

“You might say that” Foyle added, hoping to keep a strained conversation flowing.

Foyle adjusted his position on the wall, restoring the circulation. One foot pressed on a stone at the base of the wall, taking the bulk of his weight.

Comino cocked his head to the side and closed one eye. “The fuel was missing” he simply said.  
“Fuel?” Foyle asked. “What fuel might that be?” There wouldn’t be many residences that still held fuel now.   
Comino’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Sir Alfred had a special deal with a gentleman in the village, and I …..” He suddenly stopped and flinched at a songbird finding its bed for the night in the tree beside them, the bird’s evensong obviously startling him. “It was there when I left” Comino explained, rising up off his seat, “but when I returned, it was gone.”  
“Moved?” Foyle asked, taking the man’s lead and rising up off his seat as well.  
“No, gone. Missing. I haven’t been able to find it.”

Comino adjusted the ends of his trousers, and brushed the fine dirt off his sleeves.   
“Well, I’d better get back to it” he said, still nervously scanning the perimeter of the garden. “Still got things to do before that sun finally sets.”  
“Of Course” Foyle said. “And thank you.”


	15. Chapter 15

Rubbing at his shoulder, Foyle made his way slowly towards the house's grand entrance. A path, lined on both sides with large whitewashed columns, led him to a small stone staircase. At the top, cheap-looking statues of Greek Gods populated a small portico, three on either side. Rosalind would have declared it all pretentious and self-serving – she'd have been right.

The wide door ahead of him opened silently and a girl of no more than fourteen came out, a small brush on an extra long handle held aloft in her left hand; her right arm tucked into what appeared to be a sling. Foyle stopped in his tracks, certain that he hadn't been seen. One at a time, the young lady, whose dress was covered with an oversized pinafore, brushed the cobwebs and dust from the hideous looking statues, her face in a permanent scowl. She mumbled to herself as she stepped her way along the narrow portico, apparently unimpressed. Suddenly the handle of the brush, a good two feet taller than she was, swung to the left and collided with a narrow but tall terracotta pot, its occupant's leaves cascading over the rim. It wobbled for a moment then toppled to one side, gravity pulling it towards the edge.

Foyle took his last two steps at a clip. He reached out over the edge and caught the pot by its rim, saving it from hitting the stone below.

"Th...thank you" the girl stammered, quickly laying the long handle down on the stone floor at her feet. She shook her head and added "I'd have been for the chop if I'd have broken that, too."

"Well, no need to worry now."

Foyle re-positioned the pot, turning it slightly to match its neighbours, then gave the maid a smile.

"Are you here with the Vicar?" she asked, giving the last two statues a cursory glance. She shrugged and appeared to ignore their existence.

"I am."

The maid bent and picked up the handle, being careful, it seemed, to keep the end constantly in her sights. "I'll show you where they are. Follow me."

She stepped her way towards the door then suddenly stopped. With her head turned, she asked "is the Vicar here for Jason or Lady Christine?"

"Well, uh, ..."

She sighed and dropped her shoulders. "Lady Christine, I expect."

The pair walked down a wide hall, the paint at the top beginning to peel.

"You see, no-one cares about Jason" she mumbled.

Foyle frowned.

"I thought he was …. a lovely boy" she declared, her voice echoing along the corridor. "He was smart, kind, generous and ..."

Before she could end her sentence, however, a booming voice demanded assistance.

"Mary!" the man called, his tone communicating the urgency. "Tea in the formal drawing room!"

"Yes, Sir Alfred" she replied through the closed door to her left.

Foyle glanced at the arm in its sling and offered, "can I help?"

Mary gave a wry smile, cocked her head to one side and lifted her bandaged arm. "I suppose a person would call me foolish if I said no."

Foyle smiled and gestured for her to lead the way.

Mary led them, her pace brisk, to a large but sparsely furnished kitchen at the back of the house. She quickly deposited the long brush into a cupboard then began to fill the kettle.

The work areas were quite utilitarian in appearance, with no ornaments or decoration of any kind and many of the shelves were bare. She set about gathering what she needed, her one good hand ably doing the job of two.

To Foyle's right, on the far end of a long table, one large enough to easily seat ten adults, sat a red velvet bag, the top drawn in with a thick cord.

Mary walked towards the table, a large but empty tray balanced across one arm. "Mmmm" she hummed. The cast iron legs of the tray scraped against the rough timber. Following Foyle's line of sight she added "odd one, that."

Foyle stepped his way around the table to get a closer look. "Odd?" he questioned. "Why do you.."?

"I found it on a shelf in the pantry, of all places" she replied, rifling through a draw and pulling out loose teaspoons. "It just appeared last night behind the flour canister. There's two fancy looking cups in there but only one," she said, pointing to the bag with the end of a spoon, "has a lid."

"And you don't know who put it there?" Foyle turned his head to look at her.

"Well, there are no other kitchen maids now," Mary replied, shrugging her shoulders,"and I certainly didn't put it there. I was going to ask Lady Christine but..."

"...she died" Foyle reached out with his finger and touched the cord.

Mary stood still as she watched Foyle.

"You know what they are, don't you?" she asked him, awe written all over her face.

"I do." He pulled open the top of the bag, drawing back the cord. "It's a chalice and ..." he began, lifting out the delicately engraved cup and setting it on the table beside him. " ...ciborium."

"A what and a what?" she asked, noisily placing saucers onto the tray.

"They're for the bread and wine" Foyle explained, tipping up the chalice and inspecting the hallmark.

"Oh," Mary replied, adding cups to their saucers. "Are you a Vicar, too?"

Returning to the shelf, Mary picked up the next two cups, turning them around in her palm to get a better grip.

"No," Foyle declared, holding the ciborium up to the light. "I'm a Policeman. The name's Foyle."

Suddenly one of the china cups fell from Mary's grip, smashing onto the floor at her feet. "I didn't steal them!"

"I know you didn't," he said calmly, placing the ciborium on the table next to its partner. "Let me help."

"No," she quickly said, stepping over the mess to get the broom. "You've already saved me once today. Let me fix this."

As she began to sweep up the mess, Foyle asked "Mary, would you mind keeping these safe for me, please?"

"The Vicar's things?" she asked, confusion on her face. "Won't he want them back?"

"Well, yes, but, um, not yet."

"Are you sure?" she clarified, depositing the broken shards onto a sheet of newspaper.

"I am."

"He's not going to think I stole them, is he?" she asked, placing the wrapped newspaper parcel on the bench.

"No," Foyle replied, shaking his head. "I already know who stole them, and it certainly wasn't you!"

"Well, I'm very pleased to hear it!" she retorted, a portion of her brashness returning.

Mary stood in front of the tray and huffed. "Sir Alfred will think I've done a bunk."

"My fault" Foyle said, pulling out a chair for her and gesturing for her to sit down. "Sir Alfred can argue with me, if he likes."

Mary chuckled and sat down, as instructed.

"I'll take the tray in but first, I …." he began, pausing as he glanced around the room.

"Do you need something?" she asked, cocking her head.

"First I need to make a very important telephone call. Do you have access to….? "

Mary smiled and nodded. "Through there" she said, pointing to a small room on the opposite side of the hallway. "There's a telephone in there."

"Thank you."


	16. Chapter 16

Sam's eyes grew wide, her jaw dropping, as Foyle walked into the long drawing room. With the wide tray held in front, the loose teaspoons clinking together, he carefully and slowly walked towards her. She and Danny were perched on the edge of a small three-seater surrounded by bookshelves, their linked hands resting on the cushion between them.

The large room was sparsely furnished – single chairs where there ought to have been many, empty bookshelves and surfaces void of the normal treasures and trinkets that transform a house into a home. It almost looked derelict.

As Foyle approached, Sam drew in a deep breath and made to stand but Danny's hand, placed softly on her shoulder, instantly quelled her curiosity. She sighed.

After the tray was placed carefully onto the low table beside Sam, Foyle turned to the pair.

"You trust me?" he whispered, his head low.

"Absolutely!" Sam responded, her head nodding enthusiastically. "Without a doubt."

"Of course" Danny added.

"Good."

Behind the trio, closer to the window, Iain and Sir Alfred discussed the finer points of a large painting sitting proudly on the northern wall, it's gold-painted frame reflecting the afternoon sun. Standing back from the artwork, his head cocked to one side, Iain said "it is a fine picture, indeed."

"Mmmm" grunted Sir Alfred contentedly, his foot on the low brickwork around the hearth.

"But," Iain added, stroking his chin with his index finger, "the aspect…...the angle of the light was much better when you had it in the Summer House."

"No!" Sir Alfred barked, slapping his hand on the almost empty mantelpiece. "That picture's always been there. Never moved. Don't be absurd, man!" Sir Alfred's voice rose in volume and his cheeks deepened in colour.

"Oh I beg to differ" Iain replied, slowly adjusting the frame of his glasses. "The far wall, between the window and the mirror. That's where it was. I'd never miss a John Constable." Iain's voice remained soft, a practised response to such outbursts.

Sir Alfred stomped his foot down on the ash covered bricks, making the fire irons clank together. One, the longest, fell from it's hold and bounced noisily on the solid floor below, the sound echoing within the empty fireplace.

Foyle stood and watched the metal tool as it bounced, rolled then slowly came to rest about half way between the fire place and Sam's chair. The mis-shapen tip of the iron was peppered with white paint and he shaft was unusually bent.

Sir Alfred groaned, marched a few steps forward then bent to pick up the iron. As his head rose, he took in the scene. "And who in the dickens are you?" he shouted, waving a finger towards Foyle.

"Oh," Iain muttered. He cleared his throat then said "this is …

But before the Vicar could complete his introductions, Foyle said "the name's Foyle. I'm, uh, helping the Vicar with some tasks this week-end."

Sir Alfred frowned, bringing his bushy eyebrows closer together.

"Isn't that what HE is for?" Sir Alfred asked, pointing at Danny.

Danny rose up to his full height, his head towering over a floor lamp to his right. Foyle looked back over his shoulder and motioned for Danny to sit back down.

"I'm, uh, sorry for your loss, Sir Alfred" Foyle blurted, quickly bringing the attention back on himself. "It can't be easy …. losing your wife." Foyle heard Sam's seat creak beneath her.

Foyle took a step forward, closing the gap between himself and Sir Alfred.

"Mmm. Yes" Sir Alfred grumbled. He turned himself away, facing the window before clearing his throat. "Terrible business, of course."

"Yes," Foyle affirmed.

Behind Sir Alfred's back, Iain sent Foyle a silent enquiry, raising both eyebrows. Foyle gave a slight nod and scratched at his temple.

"Tea?" Sam asked, her voice louder than perhaps she intended. "There's plenty here."

"No thank you, sweetheart" Danny muttered, his jaw tense, his back straight.

"Well," Sam declared, lightly slapping her own thighs, "I think we'd all benefit from a little break, surely." She moved herself further along the seat, closer to the tea tray.

"One sugar, no milk" Sir Alfred boomed, his back still turned.

Sam grumbled under her breath as she reached for the sugar bowl.

"You've certainly had a lot to deal with lately" Foyle blurted, running a hand through his hair. "And of course the fire." Foyle's carefully chosen words caused Sir Alfred to spin around.

"What about it?" he barked, narrowing his gaze on Foyle.

"Well, only that it …. couldn't have come at a worse time."

Sir Alfred guffawed and rolled his eyes. "Rarely are there GOOD times to be had in war, Foyle."

Foyle casually took another step towards Sir Alfred.

"Well, I can see that you weren't injured …. in the fire. That's good news." As he spoke, Foyle gestured towards Sir Alfred's hands.

"Hmmm?" Sir Alfred grunted.

"Your hands."

"Oh," Sir Alfred said. "Yes, yes, my gardener …. he uh, he dealt with all of ….. that" he stammered, nodding his head towards what remained of the summer house. "While we waited for the chaps from the fire brigade."

"No" Foyle declared confidently, shaking his head. "Not true." Foyle clicked his tongue against the roof os his mouth. "Your gardener, Sir Alfred, was away at the time because you sent him away, didn't you?"

"Nonsense!"

"Not at all," Foyle declared, shaking his head slowly. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he added "your gardener was in the village when the fire broke out and I'm sure the accounts at Brittleton's Hardware will prove his story."

Iain flopped onto a chair beside his daughter, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. Sam silently passed him a cup, the tea within it dark and stewed but Iain, his eyes glued to Sir Alfred's face, raised it to his lips and took a sip.

"So, it must have been quite difficult all on your own" Foyle continued, looking Sir Alfred straight in the eye. "All those precious belongings to rescue".

"If I recall," Iain interjected, spilling a little of his tea onto his trousers, "there were many paintings in the summer house. Yes," he continued, holding the cup in both hands. "Eight, uh ….. maybe ten".

"Multiple trips in and out?" Foyle asked, feigning surprise. "It would have taken the Brigade forty-five minutes or more to arrive. I'm astonished you didn't burn your hands, at least."

Sir Alfred's face turned red with anger and he puffed out his cheeks. One hand balled itself into a fist but remained by his side.

Foyle took a further step towards the angered man. "Your kitchen maid" he began, pausing for effect, "seems to have burnt HER hand."

"I'm not responsible for that silly girl's clumsiness, Foyle" Sir Alfred rebutted and let a deep laugh roll out of his mouth.

"She's actually a lovely young lady," Foyle announced, pointing over his shoulder towards the kitchen. "I met her earlier."

Sam sat up straighter in her seat and let out a hum of satisfaction.

Foyle stepped past Sir Alfred and stood in front of the painting. "You sent her into the fire to remove this painting, didn't you?" Foyle asked, pointing to the large frame on the wall.

Iain rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Oh, Alfred. What have you done?"

Foyle stared at the painting, both hands in his pockets. "It must be worth quite a sum, but, uh, …. enough to risk a child's life? She's quite frightened."

Sir Alfred mumbled a few words, starting then stopping no less then three sentences. In the end he silently sat himself down on an old armchair beside the window and stared blankly at the garden beyond.

"What about Croxton and Darlington?" Danny asked, barely able hold in his anger. His voice shook. "Where are they?" He stood and paced his way over to the window to stand beside Sir Alfred. His hand shot out and grasped tightly onto the old chair's ornate headrest, the knuckles on his right hand brushing against Sir Alfred's greying hair. "Where were they when you were throwing a GIRL INTO A FIRE!?"

Iain shot up, standing to his full height. "Daniel!" he called, his voice clipped, his tone urgent. "Enough!"

Foyle caught Danny's eye and lifted an eyebrow in rebuke. He nodded his head towards the seat beside Sam.

"They're fools!" Sir Alfred erupted. "Not a brain between them."

"What makes you….?" Foyle began but his words were interrupted by a crash and bang coming from the back of the house.

"All they were meant to do," Sir Alfred explained, running fingers through his oiled hair, "was cause a bit of damage."

"Damage?" Foyle asked, moving himself so that he was in Sir Alfred's line of sight. "To the summer house?"

Sir Alfred gave one quick nod of his head then buried his face in his hands. "I could have claimed on the insurance. The money would have..." The remainder of his words were swallowed by a choked groan.

" …. would have given you some time?" Foyle asked, his voice lowering in volume. "Time to pay off your debts?"

Foyle scanned the room. The missing trinkets and empty shelves told a sad story. "Because you've already sold everything else of value?"

Sir Alfred nodded from behind his hands. By the rise and fall of his shoulders, it was clear that the man was sobbing.

Iain rose slowly from his position and walked to be beside Sir Alfred. He put a hand on his old friend's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Oh, Alfred" he whispered. "Why didn't you just sell the painting?" Iain's voice was barely above a whisper. "I could have helped you."

"You don't understand!" Sir Alfred blurted lifting his face from his hands. "I ….I couldn't." He paused, taking in some deep breaths. Composing himself he began to explain. "It was always Christine's favourite."

"Did she know?" Iain asked, his hand still gripping Sir Alfred's shoulder. "Did she know how much you owed?"

"Of course not!" he rebuked, lifting his face. "How could I tell her?"

The door on the southern side of the room suddenly burst open, the hinge squeaking noisily.

Foyle, Danny and Sam turned, their attention grabbed.

"Uncle! Uncle!" a young man called as he and another ran into the room. In their unrestrained haste, they pushed over a chair and made a bookshelf wobble.

"Someone's been snooping in the summer house..." Darlington almost yelled, his feet making the corner of the rug gather into a ball.

"But we sent him on his way, didn't we?" Croxton added, playfully punching Darlington's arm.

"Oh for goodness sake!" Sir Alfred screamed, making both boys freeze. "Are either of you capable of being anything more than an imbecile?"

"But … but?" Darlington protested, his body stilled.

"Once a Gregory, always a Gregory!" Sir Alfred shouted. "Your father was a buffoon and so are you!"

Darlington launched himself at his uncle, a primitive howl erupting from his throat. He grabbed fistfuls of fabric on Sir Alfred's shirt and pulled. "How many times do I have to tell you?" he asked, his nose touching his uncle's face. "I don't use my father's name. And I never want to hear it mentioned in my presence again."

Danny and Foyle, one on either side, pulled Darlington off his uncle. They dropped the overactive boy on his rear end, his feet rising up into the air as the momentum made his body roll.

"Hey!" Thomas Croxton said, catching sight of Foyle. "How did you…. Why are you here?"

Foyle rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Sam" he called, not taking his eyes off the boys. "You up for a drive?"

"You bet I am" she replied.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Author's note: Writing this next bit has been quite difficult. I know WHAT I want to say but not HOW I need to tell it (if that makes sense) while keeping in character but not boring the pants of all of my readers. Hmmm

If you haven't already guessed, we're getting to the pointy end of the story – the bit where Foyle spills it all and tells us who did what and how.

I know this chapter feels a bit like you've skipped a chapter but you haven't. I'm experimenting with the way I give away details. If it doesn't work, let me know in the comments.

And thanks for continuing to read my story. It means a lot!

ooOOoo

The sun was setting, the last of the light a golden yellow as it bathed the old church stables in an ethereal glow. Over the small rise, beyond the birch trees, the white-washed walls of the church kept watch.

"Sir!" a timid voice called, barely audible.

Foyle stood, his back to the chaos, his hand on the trunk of a gnarled tree, his head bowed.

"Sir!" The voice, this time louder with a growing urgency.

Foyle lifted his head and ran the tips of his free hand across his forehead. "Yeah."

"Can we take 'em?" the Constable asked, speaking to Foyle's back. "The Sarg wants to get going. It is Saturday evening, Sir and …."

"Yes" Foyle simply replied, not wanting to pursue a conversation. Not now. He flinched when his own finger brushed against the rapidly growing lump on the edge of his hairline.

"Are you alright, Sir?" the Constable asked, his feet shifting in the fine gravel beneath.

Foyle turned slowly around, sparing his throbbing head the added assault of rapid movement. As his eyes once more took in the sight, he groaned.

"Sir?"

"I'm fine" Foyle replied, still holding his head.

His left knee ached, protesting against the movement. "Sergeant Connors has my notes" Foyle added, pointing towards the police vehicle, it's door being held open by a cheap-suit-wearing DS. "You'll be able to charge them with a number of crimes - not least of all …. murder."

Foyle closed his eyes, blocking the view. He just couldn't bear to see the old vehicle on the far side of the road, its wheels twisted, its windows smashed, the driver's door frame lodged into the muddy bank.

Once again he heard Sam's voice, his mind playing cruel tricks. Once again he heard her call out – a constricted scream – and once again he saw the fear in her face as the wheels left the road.

"Best not to, uh, delay, hmm?" he grumbled to the young policeman before him.

"Yes, Sir" the lad replied, pivoting on the balls of his feet before marching off.

Foyle's chest burned, his windpipe hating every breath. It served him right, though, didn't it? What was he thinking, asking a pregnant woman to drive? He could have – no, SHOULD have - driven himself! Damn fool!

Full of self loathing, Foyle crossed to the other side of the narrow road. His knee protested. He slowed his pace. In the eerie silence, save for the last call of birds, he approached the ancient motor car. Shards of glass littered the ditch beside him, some catching the golden rays of the setting sun. Darkness would soon fall.

Being careful to avoid the sharp tips of glass, Foyle reached in through the car's windscreen. With one hand on the bonnet, the cuff of his coat acting as a buffer, he leaned in. The stretching movement made him wince but, with a change of angle, he was able to grasp the brim of Sam's hat.

The last time he saw it, it was tumbling from her head – giving in to gravity as her husband pulled her unconscious body from the wreck.

"Dad!" Andrew bellowed, his frantic call followed by several raspy breaths. "Dad!"

"Over here" Foyle replied, still leaning on the car's body. With the heel of his hand pressed against his sternum he sent out a warning. "Glass everywhere. Be careful."

Andrew slowed his pace, coming to a halt beside his father. "You alright, Dad?" Andrew's breathing was still rapid, his speech quick.

"Been better" Foyle replied, pushing himself off the metal frame. "How's Sam?" The wheel beside them started to wobble and spin in the breeze.

"She's conscious" Andrew said, flicking a piece of glass off his father's lapel. "But she looks a hell of a lot better than you do."

"Oh," Foyle moaned, raising an eyebrow. "I see."

"I meant ..." Andrew began but, noticing his father's face, gave up on his explanation. Silently, he raised his father's left arm and slipped a hand around his waist for support. His knees bent to allow for the difference in their heights, Andrew led Foyle up the bank and onto the walking path that weaved its way back to the vicarage.

Their going was slow and achingly tedious.

"What happened?" Andrew asked, after they'd made the half-way mark. An impatient owl hooted from a low branch to their right as Andrew renewed his grip on the waistband of his father's trousers.

"Steady on" Foyle grumbled through laboured breathing.

Andrew tutted but didn't release his grip.

"I can't imagine Sam deliberately driving into a ditch, Dad" Andrew prompted, frustration entering his tone. "So, how did you ….?"

"Fear," Foyle whispered between rough breaths.

Noticing the change in his father's breathing, Andrew stopped. "What?"

"Fear makes a man desperate" Foyle replied, taking a moment to catch his breath. "And a desperate man, when faced with the realisation that he's heading for the hangman's noose …." Foyle grimaced. " …. attacked her from behind ….. while she was driving."

"My God!" Andrew gasped.

Both men stood in silence for a time, Andrew's hand still taking a firm hold of fabric.

"You're blaming yourself for this aren't you?" Andrew questioned, turning his head slightly to take in more of his father's face. "Dad?"

Foyle pointed towards the vicarage in the distance. "Come on."

"You're not responsible, Dad."

"Of course I am!" Foyle lamented. "And I really," he continued, his breathing rough, "want to see how Sam is, so do hurry up."

Andrew groaned and rolled his eyes. "I don't think we can go any faster, Dad, without you busting something."

Andrew stopped once more, quickly standing up to his full height. "Look," he said, stretching out stiff muscles, "I could put you on my back. Carry you ..."

A rough cough spilled out of Foyle's mouth and he muttered something that told his son, unequivocally, that they would BOTH have two feet on the ground, thank you very much!

By the time they reached the house, the sun had sunk well below the trees and darkness surrounded them. It was bitterly cold.

Suddenly the door to the vicarage flew open and they were both hit with a rather comforting gust of warm air.

"Christopher!" Danny called, alarmed. "Let me help."

On reaching them, Danny bent his knees wrapped two enormous arms around Foyle's chest and quickly lifted the tired man, throwing him over one shoulder.

"Let's get you inside!"


	18. Chapter 18

Sitting in the worn-out arm chair, Foyle stared at the low flames that were struggling to keep the room warm. A lone ember floated gracefully above the grate and settled on the brickwork. It glowed once then faded into nothingness.

Muffled voices, two men, came from the hallway to his left. Foyle slowly turned his head towards the sound, being careful not to move too quickly – his head was still throbbing. A log on the fire popped suddenly, making him catch his breath.

"All's well" one of the men declared, the noise echoing slightly. Both men came through the doorway, the smaller of the two entering first. "She'll need to rest, Mr Grimshaw" he said, his head turned slightly. "I've left the medicine on her dresser, should you need it."

"Yes," Danny said, his head nodding rapidly. "Thank you. I'll look after her, doctor."

The ageing doctor, his crop of silver hair sitting neatly to one side, wiped his hands slowly on a small white towel.

"Where's the second patient?" he asked without expression and passed the towel to Danny.

Foyle groaned.

"Dad," Andrew protested, frustration filling his words. He slid a strong cup of tea onto the table beside Foyle's chair. The dark brown liquid slooshed against the rim of the cup.

"How's Sam?" Foyle asked before coughing into his fist.

"Mrs Grimshaw will be perfectly fine ….. in time" the doctor reported, looking intently into Foyle's eyes. He squinted.

"No concussion," Foyle declared. "And I didn't lose consciousness so there's um, nothing to worry about." Moving slowly, he stood – meeting the doctor's assessment face to face.

"Knocks to the head ..." the doctor began, pointing to the nasty looking lump above Foyle's eye, "should never be ignored."

"Certainly not ignoring" Foyle replied, his fingertips touching the purple coloured flesh.

Andrew sighed.

"Can I, um, see her? Foyle asked, pointing over the doctor's shoulder.

"Sure," Danny replied, nodding. "She might be a bit groggy, though."

"I do understand."

Andrew rushed to catch up to his father, bumping his hip on the back of the chair in his haste. The tea spilt, filling the saucer beneath.

Foyle smiled crookedly then lifted a hand to rest it on Andrew's shoulder.

"Ready?" Foyle whispered, leaning on his son.

Andrew nodded.

"You look bloody awful, Dad" Andrew said, quietly, as Danny and the doctor left them. "I wish you'd have let the doctor …."

Foyle rolled his eyes but kept a firm grip on Andrew's broad shoulders. "If I stop now, I won't get going again. Let's just keep moving."

Father and son moved slowly, but with determination, towards the small room mid-way down the corridor.

As they entered the room, Sam pulled herself up against the propped pillows.

"You ….. alright?" Foyle croaked out, drawing in a rattly breath between words.

Andrew slid a chair in behind his father, the wooden legs scraping against the floorboards.

"Mmm Hmmm" Sam replied, nodding.

Foyle sat down roughly, groaning as his body made contact with the worn cushion. The old chair creaked.

Discretely, Foyle nodded towards her middle. He then looked up and raised an eyebrow in question. "You're sure?"

Sam's hand touched the fold in the blankets that rested on her belly. "Yes."

Foyle leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Dad?" Andrew blurted. "Maybe you should have a bit of a lie down, just …."

"Andrew," Foyle replied, a hand raised to halt his son's words. "I'm fine."

"You don't look ..." Andrew began.

Foyle leaned forward, making the chair's back legs raise off the floor. "As soon as I've briefed my investigative assistant," Foyle said, reaching for Sam's hand, "I'll rest."

"Thank God" Andrew said in exasperation and flopped himself on the opposite corner of Sam's bed.

Sam giggled but patted their linked hands.

"Don't worry," Andrew began, adjusting his position to allow one foot to swing slightly. "Dad'll put those cretins away."

"Well," Foyle replied, releasing Sam's hand. "It's not up to me."

Andrew's eyebrows pushed themselves together and he opened his mouth to speak.

"There isn't a lot we can do, Andrew" Sam replied, causing Foyle to smirk at her use of the pronoun.

"I spoke to ..." Foyle began, leaning back into the chair. His speech, however, was interrupted by Danny's arrival, a cup and saucer perched in one hand, a small plate holding a sandwich in the other.

"Ooohhh," Sam cooed, her eyes wide. "Is that for me?"

"It is, sweetheart" Danny whispered. He handed the bounty to his wife, kissed her cheek, then sat himself down on the bed beside her.

"Thank you" she whispered, before lifting one of the sandwiches to her lips.

"So", Sam began, a hand covering her mouth as she chewed. She rolled her shoulders slightly so that Foyle was in her line of sight. "Who did you speak to?"

"Sergeant Connors" Foyle simply replied, shifting himself in the seat. "He'll be the one to lay charges."

Danny slowly ran his fingers through his hair, making the strands at his crown stick up. "I just didn't ..." he muttered, reaching for Sam's hand. " ...I wouldn't have picked Sir Alfred as a murderer."

"Well, that's because he's not" Foyle said, shifting uneasily in his chair.

Both Sam and Danny turned their heads towards Foyle. Danny's lower jaw went slack.

"He's an arsonist, a thief and frankly his general lack of respect for his fellow man is abhorrent but, uh, he's not guilty of murder."

Danny gently squeezed Sam's hand. "I almost punched him in the nose for what he did to his young servant girl."

"I'm glad you didn't" Sam whispered back and stroked the back of his fingers with her thumb.

Danny replied with a quick nod of his head and a shy smile.

Andrew rocked back and forth a coupe of times, inching himself away from Sam and Danny. The heel of his shoe knocked the corner bedpost, the hollow-sounding noise echoing in the small space.

"A thief, Dad?"

"Hmm?" Foyle hummed, turning himself towards his son.

"You mentioned …." Andrew mumbled, feeling caught out. He flapped a hand around in an attempt to dismiss the comment. "Just something you said before."

"He's right" Sam declared, squaring her shoulders. "You did say that."

Danny's head suddenly flicked up and he turned his face towards Foyle. "Of course!"

Sam's eyebrows told of her confusion and her mouth opened slightly. "What?" Her tone implored an answer from either her husband or her former boss.

"The fire iron" Danny finally said, patting the back of Sam's hand. "At Sir Alfred's house."

"Yes" Sam replied, quickly pulling herself up to sit higher in the bed. "What about it?"

"Careful now" Foyle mumbled. He leaned forward and put out a hand.

Sam waved his concern away, dismissing his distress. Foyle rolled his eyes but remained perched on the front of his seat.

"It had a flake of paint on the tip, didn't it?" Danny said, directing his question to his wife. "A really unusual shade of white, if I remember..."

Sam's eyes went wide and she pulled on the bedspread. " … and I bet," she added, her smile lighting up her face, "it matches the paint on Daddy's vestry door perfectly." She leaned forward and kissed Danny's forehead. "I married a very clever man."

Danny gave a nervous giggle while Andrew slid even further towards the edge of the mattress.

Foyle tried to hide his smile but wasn't terribly successful. "Mmmm" he mumbled. "All Sir Alfred had to do was wait until your father had left and …."

"Help himself.." Danny added.

" …. to Daddy's very old and very valuable chalice and ciborium."

Andrew sat up straight and squared his shoulders. "Who steals from a church?" he asked, his disgust evident.

"A very," Foyle replied, taking his time to chose his words carefully, "desperate man who perhaps felt like all other hope …. had been lost."

"Mmmmm" Danny murmured, nodding in both appreciation for and in agreeance with Foyle's words.

"It's still wrong" Sam declared, her lips pursed and her arms crossed tightly across her chest. "He shouldn't have done it."

"Sam" Danny whispered.

Foyle cleared his throat and said "you'll be happy to hear that I know exactly where your father's valuables are and ..." he added, noticing that three pairs of eyes were now staring directly at him, "who is looking after them."


	19. Chapter 19

Iain's palm rested gently on his daughter's cheek, his fingers parting her hairline. He bent and placed a silent kiss on the top of her head.

"I'm okay, Daddy" she replied, touching his hand with the tips of her fingers.

"I'm very pleased" he whispered then stood up to his full height.

"How is Sir Alfred?" Danny asked him, a softness in his words.

"Well," Iain replied, beginning to pace. He began at the corner of Sam's bed, twsted on the ball of his foot in front of Foyle's chair and hurried towards the dresser near the open door.. "He has found himself in quite a fair amount of trouble." He'd almost made two complete circuits before the last word came out of his mouth.

"I'm sure he was appreciative of your counsel, Iain" Danny replied, turning his upper torso to face his mentor.

Iain continued, barely completing three steps before the approaching wall necessitated a quick change in direction. He hummed to himself and ran shaking fingers along a glistening forehead.

"Murder" he mumbled, shaking his head. "In the grounds of the church, no less.." He paused for a moment of contemplation then continued along his path.

The springs under Andrew's legs squeaked. "I thought you said….," he began, facing his father – confusion on his face.

Foyle drew in a quick breath and opened his mouth to speak but a sudden outburst from Iain caused him to pause.

"I heard their confession with my own ears" Iain lamented, obviously disappointed with the whole situation. The volume of his speech was disproportionately loud for such a small space and the corner of Danny's mouth rose. "A terrible, terrible decision on their part, of course." His left foot collided with the leg of the bed.

"Who's decision?" Andrew asked, leaning forward.

Danny exhaled, seemingly happy to release a pent up tension. "Croxton and Darlington."

"Huh?" Andrew grunted.

"Sir Alfred's house maid wasn't the only one to have removed a painting from the summer house before it went up in flames" Foyle explained, leaning back in his chair.

Iain again shook his head and moaned.

"Of Course!" Sam exclaimed, her eyes suddenly as large as saucers. "The picture!"

Danny took her hands in his and frowned.

Sam flicked her eyes between Foyle and her husband, appearing to be unsure of how to proceed. Her brashness, apparently, won the internal struggle. She straightened her shoulders and drew in a deep breath.

"Before he died," Sam said, her words coming out quickly, "Jason Comino wanted to show Jack Thompson something, didn't he?" She slid her fingers from Danny's grasp and clasped her hands together tightly in her lap, her knuckles turning white. "He said 'I've got something to show you. Wait until you've seen it'".

"Sweetheart?" Danny pleaded, rubbing his large hand up and down the side of her forearm. "Slow down."

Sam sighed. Her clasped fingers became even paler.

"Try and explain it to me in a …. different way, love" Danny begged, the pain on his face obvious.

Foyle leaned forward in his chair, the ancient timber creaking. "One of Sir Alfred's pictures."

"They took it" Sam added, looking into Danny's eyes.

"From the fire?" Danny asked.

"Yes," Sam said, nodding.

"So they started a fire," Danny suggested, flicking his eyes over to Foyle for confirmation, "and in the confusion that ensued entered the building and stole the painting?"

Foyle gave one solid nod but said nothing.

Still looking at Foyle, Danny said "I'm guessing that they tried to hide their crime until the excitement died down and then, once everyone stopped asking questions, they'd retrieve their bounty and pull in a handsome sum."

"Looks like it" Foyle simply said.

"Hide a painting?" Andrew asked, his hands wide as if he were carrying something.

"Yes," Sam replied, her excitement returning. "Only they were discovered."

Foyle smiled as he ran a thumb across his chin.

"By…?" Andrew asked, leaning forward, his hand taking most of his weight and making the edge of the bed dip.

"Jason Comino" Sam told him, a glint in her eye.. She reached over and touched the tips of his fingers, giving them a squeeze. "He found out what they were up to.."

"And then" Danny added, "Jason told Jack and both went to investigate …. or confront them …. and Darlington got frightened because of Jason's connection to his uncle …. and so ..."

"He shot him" Foyle blurted.

"No wonder young Jack did a bunk" Danny lamented, shaking his head. "Probably thought he was next."

"Hang on, hang on" Andrew interjected, shaking his head. "How did the Comino lad find out. I mean, how did he know?"

"I'm afraid I'm to blame there" Iain said, suddenly bringing his pacing to a halt.

"Daddy?" Sam asked, turning to look at her father.

The rest of the room fell silent.

"Well, at the very least," Iain clarified, "I provided the inspiration."

"Iain?" Danny asked, rising to stand.

Iain took a moment to adjust his glasses. He drew in a deep breath and replied. "When I was bringing Christopher and Andrew home from the train station yesterday."

"When the car broke down?" Sam asked, her eyes begging for clarity.

"Yes, my love" he replied then took a couple of small steps towards the small bed post. He put a hand on the timber then continued his explanation. "We saw Sir Alfred's motor car go past."

Foyle nodded.

"It was being driven by …." Iain began then swallowed. "… his nephew."

All eyes were on Iain as he retold the story.

"Young Elliot had secreted the painting into his uncle's motor car and was looking for a place to hide it."

Iain began pacing once more, this time in the opposite direction.

"How do you know this, Daddy?"

"You know I can't divulge details of the confessional, my dear." Iain's face turned a slight crimson.

"The old stables!" Andrew's sudden outburst made Sam jump. "Sorry" he whispered, dipping his head a little.

"I'm afraid you're right, Andrew" Iain mumbled, shaking his head again.

"That would explain why it was open that night. Darlington must had forgotten to latch the door."

Sam clapped her hands together in excitement.

"And when the Home Guard began their exercise, Comino found their hidden treasure."

Andrew still looked flummoxed. His eyes squinted shut. "But the body was ..."

"Well," Foyle interjected, "wouldn't have done them much good to leave the body right next to their stolen goods, would it?"

"They'd have been found out" Sam added, smiling at Foyle.

"So they moved it? The body I mean?" Danny asked his wife.

Sam looked across at Foyle, a smugness radiating.

"Yes" Foyle replied.

"And Croxton's jacket?" Danny asked.

"He couldn't have worn it with blood – I'd have picked him for sure!" Sam declared with confidence. Foyle rolled his eyes.

The sound of Katie's cries could be heard, an urgent call to arms.

"I'll go" Danny said, giving his wife a quick peck on the cheek before standing.

Iain gave another sigh and followed Danny out of the room. "Bella, my love" he softly called.


End file.
